


Peter Captured

by lexyhamilton (ohheichoumyheichou)



Category: Peter Pan & Related Fandoms, Peter Pan - J. M. Barrie
Genre: Bondage, Fucked Up, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Mental Anguish, Pedophilia, Rape, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-28
Updated: 2014-09-28
Packaged: 2018-02-19 02:26:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 12
Words: 51,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2371037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohheichoumyheichou/pseuds/lexyhamilton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a fic about what would have happened had Captain Hook captured Peter Pan at some juncture during the canon story.<br/>Ample warnings for dark themes that include abuse of a child, both physical and sexual, an extremely dysfunctional abusive relationship, and an uncomfortable dose of Stockholm Syndrome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Peter Captured

**Author's Note:**

> I started this fic before the 2003 movie was released and the fandom was a small but thriving one. The universe I imagine for this one is probably J.M. Barrie's book more than any other rendition.  
> I've never had the discipline to finish it, but I'm contemplating doing so, if only for closure.  
> The beginning is still a little rough, so apologies for that, but I think this is the longest, most world-buildingly complete fic I've written.

The prisoner beat himself against the door of the powder room, but it hardly budged from the impacts. The violence was being done mutely, so that Hook began to doubt whether it was really Peter Pan he had locked in.

"Pan? It's no use trying to escape. Hand over your weapons, slide them under the door."

"Over my dead body," the boy's voice sounded, all too recognizable even through the muffling door. Why was the child always so gratingly fearless? "Come in here and take them away yourself, Captain."

"I'm afraid I'll just have to wait then," Hook called out. The man sat down onto the edge of a nearby barrel, still trembling in his excitement. His prize was just on the other side of the door, almost ready for the ripping and gutting. The crew had gone to land to re-supply hours ago, but they were probably helping themselves to a few extra hours of rest by staying on land longer than the task required.

The wood of the ship groaned all the time, and Hook would probably not have even noticed the creaking of the doors, but for all his years with this particular ship. He knew every sound that would emanate from its bowels, and this one had been alien. Peter Pan must have suffered from quite the opposite effect, because he paid no heed to the several slow creaks produced when Hook made his way to see who it was that ventured to explore their vessel.

Thinking the whole crew was out looking for him, with Hook at its lead, Peter was eager to explore for himself the ship that housed his enemy and greatest source of entertainment. Hook startled Peter just as he peered into the darkness of the powder room. The boy parried successfully, but it had been easy to push him inside and lock the door. Hook ran over the moment for the tenth time in his head, immense satisfaction and even disbelief at how easy it had been, in the end, warming his soul.

It was a few hours before Hook heard anything from inside the room again.

"Please-- let me out. I need to--" Peter's voice trailed off, unsure of the words he had never had to use before.

"Why so demure now? What you've been doing around my ship all these years was worse than pissing. I'm not letting you out with your weapons." There was a short silence, and suddenly a dagger slid under the door, pushed out by slender fingers.

"And the rest of what you're wearing. So that I'll be able to see you're unarmed." Hook smiled as he saw a complicated fabric of leaves follow the dagger. "Is that really all?"

"Yes! Now, let me go."

"It's a bit too early for that, I should say." Hook said, picking up the clothes on the point of the dagger.

"But you promised!" Delicious exasperation colored the boy's voice, but Hook only sat back on the barrel, running the leaves through his fingers-- greedy for a foretaste of his nemesis now that he was almost in his clutches. Before, he had cherished every bit of blood left on a blade or his hookЧtasting it, reveling in having forced Pan to betray a sense of mortality. Now he had so much, and the boy himself soon enough. There was a bang against the door again.

"Kindly calm down and quit ruining the door!" Hook voice rose to a bellow. The inside of the room grew quiet, until not long afterwards he heard the faint sound of trickling urine against a wooden surface. The crew returned and Hook reluctantly gave up his post, bidding Robert Mullins only watch the door and not offer to say a word. Night fell, and Cecco reported that the boy was crying for water.

Hook walked down, and when everyone in the vicinity grew silent, quiet sobbing from inside the room became distinct. Smee protested on Peter's behalf, but Hook would have none of it. He had decided to take no chances, and have the boy remain in there as long as possible to sap him of all strength and spirit. It was a pathetic and ungentlemanly tactic, but Hook was more than willing to put such considerations aside when permanently capturing the boy was at stake.

On the second day Tinker Bell appeared on the ship, obviously searching for her missing hero, and was caught easily enough by one of the crew in her agitated state. Hook kept her in a glass jar in his cabin, studying her figure when what he was really impatient for was to have the boy already physically restrained. Yet though he trembled with anticipation, he did not hasten the proceedings, and stayed away from the powder room altogether to avoid temptation and open it prematurely. After all, Peter Pan would not fall for the same trick again. That is, unless he forgot. Hook grinned to himself, but was not about to take any chances.

It was on the third day, after Hook suddenly noticed that the fairy had expired sometime in the afternoon, that he went to check on his prisoner. Nothing had been heard inside since the morning, Cecco reported, having been on watch since the early hours. It was time. Hook entered the room himself, sword drawn just in case, offended by the rancid smell of old urine. There in the darkness, the boy lay on the floor. Just as Hook sheathed his sword, sure that his nemesis was unconsciousЧif not worseЧthe boy swiveled his head to face the captain, eyes hollow and tragic.

"Water-- please, Hook-- water," his voice crackled, barely recognizable. Hook approached him cautiously, but finally took up the body to carry it out. So small! Was this really his feared nemesis? For a fleeting moment Hook felt as though he had lost his mind and locked up a tiny child undeserving of any such fate. Peter's hands and ankles were bound immediately and Bill Jukes held him face down into a barrel full of dank rainwater. Having had his fill he sat on the deck, restrained by a chain to an oversize cannonball.

Amazing how quickly the boy recovered, Hook mused, as he watched Peter Pan show his fiendish lopsided smile again, evidently enjoying the sunlight and hardly perturbed by the dire situation he was in. The crew stood around, looking at him with a mixture of wonder and fear. Indeed, even Hook had never had the opportunity to study the boy's features before, having only been in proximity during battle where he paid more attention to the blade than the boy behind it.

Peter, on the other hand, seemed to have little interest in studying his nemesis up close. "Hey, Mr. Smee, I'm a bit hungry. Mind making me something?"

Smee hesitated, looking at his captain, but trudged off almost before Hook had nodded. It had to be admitted that the boy was used to commanding. It almost felt like a waste to execute a being so resilient, but an echo of pain shuddered through Hook's right arm as if to remind him that an execution would be a mercy for this sprite.

***

 

Peter was kept in the hold before they could adequately prepare for his demise. In truth, there was less physical than mental preparation for Hook. When finally faced with the prospect of killing his enemy, the end seemed anti-climactic. Especially since the boy made it such a point to remain cheeky and happy, though Hook was sure this was all facade after hearing those sobs from behind the door on that wonderful day that saw the boy's capture.

He came down to the hold often, admiring the culmination of years of pursuit. Peter would smile and stick his tongue out, and then say something new to irritate the captain. Sometimes it was nothing clever, merely the nonchalant way in which the boy spoke down to the man who would soon kill him.

"Ah, you're here. That's good, because I need to take a piss." Pursed lips. As if Hook had neglected his duties by not coming down earlier. Though Hook had the urge to kick the boy sitting so smugly in front of his boots, he suddenly thought of a more traumatizing punishment. Surely it would be sweet revenge to enjoy something that would hurt the boy-- Hook knelt down and tried to extricate Peter out of his complicated clothing to no avail, until he finally untied the boy's hands and let him do the honors.

He stared at the naked body displayed so unashamedly before him. One of Peter's legs twisted inward slightly in that irritating, childish way, as he continued to urinate. The sound of it hitting the pot ceased, and Peter reached down for the pants pooled at his ankles. He suddenly felt a strong arm grab him about the waist and a hand roughly picking his chin back up, straightening him out about halfway before he felt his back pressed into the large body looming over him. Never had the two been in such proximity, and the boy grimaced at the strong reek of tobacco, sweat, and metal. Hook's head was so close that Peter could see long, dark ringlets fall on either side of his own head. He tried to extricate himself from this strange embrace, especially when he felt the hook begin to dig into his side. He could feel Hook's heartbeat pound into his back.

"Do you know what I did to butterflies when I was a wee child in grammar school?"

Peter could hardly recognize the captain's guttural voice rasping into his ear. Hook scooted forward, pushing Peter along unceremoniously, their feet jumbling together as Peter's were particularly uneager and unsure of their destination. They proceeded towards a barrel that was within the reach of the chains restraining the boy's ankles.

"I'd go out into a garden with a net and catch them in midair. Oh, how they'd flop about, desperate to fly away again, beating their flimsy wings against their cruel confines--" Peter's pathetic struggles ceased, at least for the moment, though he was still shaking and tense. He could not have known what was in store for him, Hook reasoned, but his mere tone must have been sinister enough for the boy.

"And after I returned inside, can you guess what I did with them?"

Peter tried to turn his head and at least see, if not face, his attacker. Before Hook realized what he was doing, he leaned down and kissed the cheek that revealed itself when the boy turned in profile. He cursed himself at doing silly things like this. He did not even find Peter's body very pleasing, much less anything else about him, and the boy certainly did not merit any such attentions. It had not been wise to envisage Peter Pan while bringing himself to completion all those times in the privacy of his cabin, for though the daydreams had all been ones of gruesome triumph, now the boy seemed to conjure up something like lust in any context.

"I'd pin them--" Peter had only a moment to tense himself before being thrown onto the barrel's edge. "--and mount them." Peter groaned as Hook's added weight made the edge cut into chest. The captain laughed and undid his clothing just enough.

Peter heard Hook shuffle around with something. Roughened fingertips brushed against his body in a place that should not, by all rights, have been touched. And then came the invasion, unlike any other. The finger had been wetted with saliva, and slid in easily enough after the initial, uncomfortable breach, but Peter felt outraged that he could do absolutely nothing to stop the pain and humiliation.

"N-n-no-- you can't do that--" He gasped and jerked, lacerating himself against the hook when a second finger reached in. He wished he could turn enough to face the man who was breathing so hotly down his exposed back.

"Doesn't-- hurt--" Peter finally stuttered out, determined not to show weakness. He wished he could see the pirate's face, because this torture was less painful than disturbing and incongruous.

"Pleased to hear it, Pan," Hook muttered, fingers pulling out. "Because soon your worthless bag of bones will finally be put to some real use."

Peter felt something completely unfamiliar threaten to enter him in the same ignominious way, and could do nothing but breathe raggedly as pain suffused his body. Tears sprang up involuntarily as he felt himself being filled up with something hot and massive, which seemed to plow into him and shove his very insides apart, straining his opening with burning agony until it felt that he would inevitably tear.

Hook could see his heavy breaths move the boy's hair, but only when he managed to keep his eyes open. The pleasure denied him so many years was now his and more blissful than he had remembered it. The astounding tightness of buggery, the weak squirming of the body underneath him, and, above all, the knowledge that it was his nemesis he was deflowering made him shake with ecstasy. He only wished he could see the boy's face and watch it as it lost its innocence. One of the boy's hands moved back and made spastic efforts to push Hook's body away-- slender fingers digging into the lush velvet with pathetic urgency. No, Pan was no ethereal sprite. The pleasure he gave was quite corporeal.

Hook began to thrust, and Peter found it very hard to stay silent. Worst of all, he knew nothing about what to anticipate, and was deathly afraid when he heard Hook's pleasure-filled moans above him. It ended sooner than Peter had feared, but he was not the better for it. Hook turned the boy around, gleeful when he saw the boy's reddened eyes widen to behold what had been the instrument of torture. As Hook stepped away and brought himself back to order, Peter's hands hesitantly traveled to the site of injury-- afraid to explore what it was that was leaking out of him. Peter shuddered when he discover a sticky mixture of red and white glop, on his fingers. Hook slapped Peter hard enough to send him to the floor as soon as he cared enough to look over and notice the boy's self-examination. The captain hated the possibility of his prisoner pleasuring himself when left to his own devices during what was supposed to be his damnation.

"Never touch yourself, you scraggy sack of scum," he said rather nonchalantly, following up with a couple of half-hearted kicks from which Peter barely tried to dodge. In the torrent of verbal abuse that followed, Hook used many words Peter could not even begin to understand, before going up the stairs to leave boy lying in the dank darkness, a stranger to his own body.

Smee came into the hold with the leftovers from the men's meal some time later. He could not immediately find the boy cowering near the wall, as far as his chain would allow, still undressed. Nor could he coax him to divulge what had happened, until the dried streams of blood on the skin of Peter's thighs came into view in the dim light. The airs of familiarity of the old pirate finally broke Peter down and he disclosed everything, stumbling over his words in his anxiety. Peter could feel his face burning with shame by the time he finished, but it did feel better to have found someone who could listen and even commiserate.

Smee corrected Peter on several counts, namely that he had not been Сpissed' into, and that his hipbones were, very likely, still intact. Peter listened in awe as Smee related how he had been in a similar situation when he began life on the sea as cabin boy.

"And he said I might as well consider myself a girl now," Peter echoed a dismaying phrase that had haunted him.

Smee took Peter's head, pressing it to this grubby striped shirt. "You'll always be a boy, son. Don't worry your sweet little head over that. Now, I was older than you when it started, and it still hurt, and I cried at night at first, fearing all sorts of things from the other men in the dark sometimes. But no one laid a hand on me Сsides the Cap'n. And you cut a bonny figure-- more than I coulda ever hoped for. If you play your cards right, not only will the Cap'n not execute ya, but he might fret over ya and keep ya in good health."

"I'd rather die--" Peter said, suppressing the feeling of tears coming on. "I just want to go home."

"We all do," Smee said, suddenly uncomfortable with his position as an accomplice and taking solace only in that he had always owed allegiance to the Captain, first and foremost.

Rumors of Peter Pan's status as ship's whore spread fast, starting as mere speculations when his execution was postponed and solidified into law when Cecco and Bill happened to walk in on the captain taking his pleasure. By that time Peter was no longer concerned with keeping up appearances of being unaffected and would let out screams loud enough to be heard in all but the deepest recesses of the Jolly Roger. Before long, members of the crew were asking the captain for permission to visit the hold, where the debauchery took place. They came down in pairs, taking turns holding the boy put. Though Hook never monitored their activities directly, there was an unspoken understanding that Peter was not to show signs of egregious abuse by the end of the day, when Hook would descend to have a taste for himself. Thus, even the vilest among them were careful to do no physical damage. Peter Pan's rank thus drifted from a revered and reviled prisoner to merely a precious commodity. More than a week passed in this fashion, during which the boy attempted everything from physical resistance to hunger and silence strikes, with no other success than making his old caretaker worry.

***

 

Smee trudged to Hook's cabin. Part of him was glad that the boy had escaped before any more harm came to him, but he also worried about the captain's temper. There'd be no easy living on the ship for days, and Smee sincerely hoped he would not be personally accused of negligence in his duties.

He knocked and swung the door open when Hook's voice bade him enter, already beginning to relate the tragic news of Pan's escape, but stopped short. He could go no further inside, stupefied by the scene unfolding before him.

The tragic boy lay naked on the bed, his wrists chained to the posts, and his legs thrown up so high that his very knees rested on his chest and his ankles extended beyond his head. Hook held him in this uncomfortable position with his own person, ostensibly doing nothing more than stroking the boy's hair.

"Observe how limber he is, Smee. Oh, what a joy to have such a body at one's disposal, don't you think?"

Smee could not face the captain when he was sitting astride the child who was gazing so plaintively toward the doorway now. "If you please, Cap'n, he's only a boy."

"A boy?Ф Hook scoffed. He released the pressure on the small body, and Peter immediately took imprudent advantage by delivering a sharp kick to the man's jaw. "He was, flying around these, parts, before you were, in your cradle, Smee," Hook spoke-- a bit brokenly because he was simultaneously shaking Peter's head back and forth as punishment for his recalcitrance, threatening to tear hair right out of the scalp.

"A pretty face, isnТt it, Smee?" Hook suddenly said, taking the boy's chin and forcefully turning it back and forth between him and the old boatswain. "Not a classic visage, by any means, and perhaps much too gaunt in some places, but there's some untamed, exotic quality that makes him look rather pristine."

"Yes, Cap'n," Smee mumbled, avoiding Peter's forlorn stare, and turning to leave-- exceedingly sorry now that he had no news to report. A sudden call of his name prompted him to face the captain again.

"Have new clothes made for the brat. We shall be keeping him long enough to warrant it," Hook said. "Oh, and none of that complicated full body tripe. Make the pants easy to remove."

Peter winced as the door clicked closed, remembering that the main event was still to come. He was constantly sore, and had been used so many times that each separate instance was beginning to coalesce into one massive blur in his memory. Each time, whether with Hook or the others, he thought he could fight-- that he could do something of extraordinary ingenuity or agility that would let him escape-- and each time he ended up a crippled heap, his desire to live only a consequence of his desire for vengeance. Hook felt Peter's body relax, the ribcage expanding before letting out a defeated sigh.

"What's the matter, boy, are we losing our mettle already?" Hook pushed Peter's legs apart with ease. The boy fixed his eyes on the ceiling, scrambling to think of something pleasant, even as he braced himself for the worst. Smee's repetitive advice had been to relax, and relax Peter did, knowing he would shortly be breached whether he accepted the invasion or not.

"Have we turned into such a whore that we don't even want to fight back?" Hook brushed the skin of the boy's sunken in abdomen. Peter made no answer, though his pulse was quickening, and he knew he was inadvertently tightening up.

"Aren't we ashamed of ourselves in the slightest?" Hook asked, teasing his finger into Peter's cleft but no further. Peter finally looked down to see the man leering. "Used by my men worse than a rag to wipe their feet on-- Stinking of the water in the hold-- And lying here, naked and wanton, for me to use as I please..."

"Why should I be ashamed when you're not?" Peter finally said quietly, cheeks starting to burn in spite of himself. His shame was returning indeed, and on its heels, his anger.

Hook knew Peter well enough by now to notice and grinned. "That's the spirit, lad. Nobody wants you as a willing catamite." The man pinched the sensitive skin near the opening. Peter flinched and managed to free one of his legs enough to deliver a kick to Hook's face. The slap of the captain's hand across Peter's cheek rang out across the cabin, and the boy's tears finally came forth.

"Give me a good fight, like old times, and your precious bottom might go without the pounding it deserves--" Hook said, reveling in this new game. Each teasing advance prompted some inefficient flailing out from Peter, and this, in turn, earned the boy painful corporal punishment. By the time Hook grew tired of the cruel play, Peter lay bruised in many places, gasping and trembling, eyes wild like a wounded animal's.

"It wasn't good enough of a fight, I'm afraid," Hook panted out, though even as he said it he was rubbing his chest where Peter had delivered a particularly painful kick. Peter's tear-filled eyes stared resolutely at the pattern of beams on the ceiling. Hook moved into him with the aid of oil, but it still left the boy's opening burning. Hook gasped through teeth clenched in a grin as Peter's body presented a frantic kaleidoscope of sensation-- pushing out, then trying to pull in, then deciding better again-- gripping the intrusion mercilessly all the while. That lovely head thrashed back and forth, tearing eyes squeezed shut, as if it could somehow detach itself and block out the unpleasantness inflicted on the rest of the body below. Hook smirked as he saw Peter's fly open when his legs were forced farther apart, just in time to see Hook thrust even deeper into him. Hook's black locks hung down like a curtain around the boy's head and chest, brushing the white skin with each thrust into the contracting heat. Oh, how Peter Pan could delight, in spite of himself!

***

 

Hook never brought Peter down to the hold again, though this hardly meant less suffering. With the boy always under hand, Hook took to using Peter several times a day, and the pattern of the headboard of the bed and that of the ceiling beams were ingrained into the boy's memory quite well from his efforts to fixate on something else as he experienced hellish agony. When Hook felt disposed to entertain himself early in the morning, he would often leave the boy chained up-- whether out of sheer laziness or malice Peter could never quite guess. Smee would tend to him as best as he could, feeding the boy and offering him the bedpan even as he lay prone and largely helpless for most of the day. Peter refused most of his services and would protest vehemently against being lubricated for the next session ahead of time, though he knew full well it was only for his sake that Smee went to the trouble. He shed tears freely when Hook was not present, loathing his forced bedridden state, and yet praying Hook's return would be postponed as long as possible.

At other times, Hook held the boy restrained on the floor, with the same apparatus as had been used in the hold. In short, hardly anything had changed. Peter could find only small consolation in the dry floor and copious sunshine that penetrated the cabin at some periods of the day, in contrast to the dank darkness he had to endure before. Escape was made impossibly difficult through Hook's many precautions and Peter resigned himself to biding his time and waiting until his keeper grew more confident and careless with him.

Though the novelty of corrupting his enemy's innocence wore off quickly, as Hook had dreaded, he continued looking forward to ravishing Peter each day, for other reasons. Where the boy's body had been almost displeasing at first-- all bones and sinews, not a curve in sight-- Hook found something alluring now. Past physical activity rendered its motions unintentionally graceful. The lanky frame was of the simplest design-- the absolute minimum required for inclusion into the human race. It amazed Hook that the tight little vessel could stretch to accommodate him inside it, however unwillingly. The thirst for Peter's bodyЧits youth, and smoothness, and tininess-- was becoming unquenchable, and Hook was glad about his decision to seclude his prisoner from the other men's grubby clutches.

Peter dared not hope for the best, but the frequency with which he was used slowly diminished. Even the raping itself became less brutal, and Hook often lay beside the restrained boy afterwards, licking away traitorous tears, trying to kiss away the frown, and, failing at that, moving down to the delicate chest and the navel.

"Pretty, livid little thing," Hook would taunt him, and Peter could not help but tremble at the lust that slowly but ever so surely replaced the anger with which he was treated. That particular tone made him sick to his stomach and he almost wished it were back to the kicks with the boots.

There was a certain sense of discomfiture in having the boy residing in his cabin. For, as much as Peter was helpless against scrutiny, nothing missed his eyes either. Hook began to sleep in most of his clothing and was chagrined to notice that Peter could still smirk, however wistfully, when he watched the rather undignified procedure of putting the harness on. One of these days, Hook swore to himself, he would shove his stump far enough down Peter's mouth that he would not dare smirk at anything ever again. Not before he was finished adoring that intoxicating body, however.


	2. Rosebud

Hook entered the room dressed in the height of elegance and immediately locked the door behind him. Peter had been curled up on the floor asleep not far from Hook's bed, his hands still tied behind his back and his ankles chained down, but immediately picked up his head in apprehension at the loud noise the door made. So pathetic, mused Hook. Like a sorry little animal. Peter sat up, his back hunched and his eyes gazing up distrustfully.

"Did I wake you, my pretty?" Peter did nothing but blink and purse his lips. "Well I'm sorry, but you'll have to wait a moment before we begin. I did want to do one thing prior... Business before pleasure, as they say." Hook walked over and took out one of his books of maps. Peter followed him with his eyes. Hook was poring over the books for such a long time that Peter finally gave in to his fatigue and slumped back down to the floor. Sleep was rare and often interrupted on the ship. Moreover, most of Peter's dreams were exhausting nightmares, leaving him feeling drained even after many consecutive hours of shut-eye.

When the captain was finished he walked over very quietly to the boy. The face was positively angelic when he was asleep. His mouth was open ever so slightly. A real shame such lovely moist lips had to be brought so low into the dust, Hook thought. He gently touched the cold of his metal prosthesis to the bottom of Peter's chin, but the boy started up so violently that Hook pulled away in a scare. The look of wild terror left Peter's eyes when he finally focused them on the captain.

"Dreaming, are we? What does that miniscule brain of yours conjure up?"

"Just a nightmare."

Hook sneered. "About me, by any chance?"

"Don't flatter yourself..." But Peter pulled back and shut up promptly when the captain brought the hook back down, close to his face.

"This is all very interesting, but if you don't mind, I'll proceed with what I came for." Hook heaved Peter up onto the bed. He unlocked the ankle chains and untied the rope on the wrists, revealing painfully chafed skin. Hook was about to take off his false appendage when Peter bolted up from the bed. Flying felt surreal by now, not having had the opportunity to lift like this in weeks. Unfortunately, Hook was more alert than Peter anticipated and pounced on top of the boy, stifling him with his weight.

"Where would you have gone, Pan? I'm just curious... The door is locked, and so is the window. And if you think you could throw yourself through the glass, you're deeply mistaken. You'd bleed to death before you even reached the shore, my little pixie." Peter felt his insides groaning under the painful weight, and he tried squirming out, despite knowing in advance it would be to no avail.

"I'm not afraid to die. It's still better than being here..." Peter panted out, unable to fully inhale. Hook smiled patronizingly.

"Then you must not know what happens to little boys who act like little girls after they die." He looked at Peter for a prompt to continue, but the boy gave him none, so he picked up again on his own. "The little boys who act like girls go to hell, where devils roast your flesh in fire for eternity."

Peter's eyes grew a little larger at the thought, in spite of himself, but not for long. "And men who like little boys?" Hook smiled complacently, but Peter knew him well enough by this time to notice some agitation betrayed in the eyes.

"I'm a pirate, Peter. Pirates are so evil even hell doesn't want them... And you're no real boy, Peter-- trust me on that. I'll prove it to you." The captain finally lifted his crushing weight off of Peter, grabbed him by the ponytail, and impulsively dragged him across the cabin to his desk. Peter immediately grabbed hold of Hook's forearm to avoid losing his scalp. The captain slipped Peter under his right arm and began racing through his keys until he found the correct one, while the boy winced from the metal digging into his side, threatening to cut him at any moment. Hook unlocked one of the drawers and dug out a dusty box that he opened to reveal a very old set of cosmetics. He pushed everything on his desk to one side and plunked Peter down on the cleared space. Holding the boy in place with his right elbow applied to the chest, Hook began smearing something from every bottle and container onto Peter's face. The boy didn't like the sensation, but after turning his face away several times, Hook gave him such a violent smack on the rear he decided it would be less painful to comply. The captain had understandably little to no experience in the art, and often had to guess what a given powder was meant for. He stopped before applying the lip-paint when he saw how much of its original red luster it had lost. It was so dry and cracked that Hook had to spit in it in order to revive its consistency. Just as he finished spreading the gaudy color over Peter's trembling lips with his thumb, he shivered in the realization that he had completely desecrated his mother's memory by using one of his few mementos of her so inanely.

Hook felt Peter begin shifting out from under his right arm, which had temporarily relaxed somewhat. He grabbed his shaving mirror from the pile of items next to Peter's body and promptly squelched the boy's frame back into the mahogany tabletop. He took the mirror and placed his head next to Peter's so as to make sure it was properly aligned for the boy to see his reflection.

Peter had resolved not to show any emotions that would gratify Hook, even before the latter had finished his frenzied efforts, but when he saw the barely recognizable face staring back, tears welled up. The work was decidedly hasty and garish, but Hook found himself strangely pleased with the result.

"You make a tolerable girl," Hook remarked. "Maybe a little on the hideous side, but still a girl." The captain was exaggerating the ugliness. The mascara on the eyelashes really accentuated the seductive twitch of the eyelids that Peter displayed when a little upset, as now, and Hook felt himself overwhelmed with renewed lust. He put down the mirror and leaned over Peter. The smell of mother... even the look, to some extent... now all in this boy-- the very antithesis of everything his dear mummy ever stood for. Hook leaned down and kissed those lips of deep, unholy red.

Peter wanted to shrink away. He tasted the usual smoky tobacco from Hook's mouth, now intermixed with the revolting oily paint to produce an entirely new sickening flavor. Hook deepened the kiss. His arms rarely being so free, Peter began pummeling away at his assailant, each ineffectual hit only sinking the boy further into hopelessness. One particularly hard strike across Hook's face did prompt the captain to push his elbow down into Peter's abdomen rather viciously. There was a muffled sob, and Peter's arms dropped down in surrender. Hook mounted onto the desk still maintaining mouth contact. Peter whimpered, guessing well enough what would soon follow. Hook's tongue finally made an exit out of Peter's mouth. He unscrewed the dangerous weapon off his arm and cast it onto the floor. The rest was almost perfunctory-- unbuttoning just enough, pulling the boy's pants off completely, spitting into the palm, and preparing both himself and the destination before entering. Hook loved the way Peter's pupils always dilated momentarily from the initial entry, but after each time he cursed himself for risking damage to the boy by not starting more slowly.

Items on the edges of the desk crashed to the floor, as jumbled limbs spastically moved back and forth across its surface. Hook felt particularly dissolute when he looked up to see his mother's portrait looming over him with its piercing eyes, and then saw the eyes under him, grown red with tears, the same mascara flowing in dark streams out of the corners and into the boy's ears. Mother had been demoted from goddess to whore, and little Jimmy felt that much more liberated.

***

Peter lay motionless on the floor, in exactly the same position Hook had left him after re-chaining his ankles. It had been some time since they finished, but Peter always had difficulty falling asleep following a session. Hook was lying fully clothed on his bed, twirling the double cigar holder between his lips and watching the smoke he exhaled rush up towards the ceiling before coming back down all the way to the floor. He was no longer in a contented stupor but thinking. He had really been treating the boy rather harshly. True, sometimes he still felt urges to slice Peter in half and see the guts spill out onto the floor. But lately, these bloody fantasies were overshadowed by desires for the boy to reciprocate. To adore his oppressor. Hook sighed at the thought.

"Hook, there's something in my eye." Hook sharply turned his head to see that Peter had sat up. It was rare for the boy to speak shortly after a session. Hook got off the bed and leaned in to Peter's face. Peter was blinking rapidly, and one of his eyes was redder than the other.

"Must be the mascara," Hook said, almost apologetically. "I'll take it all off." He brought the basin of water intended for his own morning wash, and began rubbing off the various shades of red, white and black that had become rather smudged during their previous activity. Peter's eye was still irritated, and a solitary tear ran out of it, down his cheek. Hook caught it in his fingers before it could fall into the dirtied water of the basin and touched the salty drop to his tongue.

"At least untie my hands so I can rub it," Peter pleaded. Hook was completely mesmerized by the shimmer of tears in the large eyes. Desire was rising in waves in the captain. Peter had barely enough time to close his eyes before Hook suddenly applied his mouth to the hurting one, running his tongue over the eyelid and tasting the eye shadow he hadn't yet washed away. When he finally let go, he saw Peter glaring back at him, clearly having failed to appreciate all the intimacy.

"Why don't you untie my hands for just a few minutes, and I'll wash it off myself... Then you won't have to touch such a dirty girl..."

"I love it when you think you're being clever, Pan." Love, Hook thought. I love it when he says a lot of things, lately. I love him. He felt an urgent need to say it. The boy was so beautiful, even with the colors running down his face, reminding Hook more of the Indians than his former archenemy. He loved him, there was no denying it any longer.

"You look good enough to eat..." Was what came out instead. Hook leaned in and gave Peter a monstrous hickey on the neck. As he pulled away, he was disappointed to see Peter obviously cringing from this show of affection. The face was relatively clean now. Hook raised him onto his bed, keeping the chained ankles over the edge.

"My pretty pixie... why won't you let yourself enjoy your stay?" Hook said more pleadingly than he had initially intended. Peter said nothing. He was tired and the need for sleep was catching up to him. He prayed Hook was not contemplating doing another round this late in the day. The sun was low and its rays were streaming in directly through the paned glass, creating strange pools of light around the room, each one appearing to dance to a different tune. How he missed Tinker Bell. And why had she not tried to find him?

"...Hmmm? What's the matter with you, lad? Don't you know you have to make the best of every situation?" Hook pecked Peter on the cheek. "I love you..." The words seemed almost foreign in his mouth.

Peter was lying motionless, feeling his hands becoming numb under his own weight, and avoiding eye contact. "I really do love you," Hook repeated, and wrapped his strong fingers more than halfway around the thin white neck. "So much so that sometimes I want to kill you for it..."

"I wish you'd do it already and get it over with." The boy said, and shuddered when he felt Hook suddenly slip the severed limb under his shirt. Even through all the scarred flesh, Hook could relish how smooth and delicate Peter's chest was.

"Don't touch me with that," Peter blurted out nervously. Hook smiled.

"Would you rather I put my hook back on and caress you to shreds?" The red sunlight in the room was growing progressively dimmer. Sunsets were very quick things in Neverland. "I love you," Hook said again, bewildered at his own candor. He kissed Peter deeply, running his tongue over the boy's, and massaging the roof of the mouth. As Hook continued further towards the throat, he felt the boy begin to gag, and obligingly pulled out. Peter looked over Hook's body briefly before spitting directly on his impeccably clean coat. The captain's blood rose to his temples, his nostrils flared, and Peter secretly regretted his small rebellion. Hook grabbed the boy by the ropes that bound him and wiped the spittle off his coat with Peter's body as if it were not much more than a handkerchief. He then flung the boy off the bed, but Peter remained suspended in midair, ostensibly chained to the cannonball on the floor, but defying every fettering sense of logic Hook had proudly cultivated in himself. What aroused the greatest jealousy in Hook was the effortlessness with which the boy did this, even in his broken state. He quickly pushed Peter to the floor and delivered a painful kick into his back before returning to the bed. Peter braced himself for more physical assault, but Hook remained seated on the bed, grimly watching Peter trying to squirm back into a sitting position and conceal his pain.

"Why does the rosebud refuse to blossom?" The captain muttered to himself.

"Because it knows it will wilt soon after," Peter replied bitterly. Hook's eyes enlarged and a smile spread across his face. Peter turned away from Hook, just in case the pain in his back from the rough impact would make him tear up again.

"No matter how many thorns it tries to grow, it can still be picked easily," Hook said, this time addressing Peter directly.

"Easily? Only by the one who grew it and knows it well."

"A little prick here and there wouldn't stop someone who wants it passionately."

"True. But the one who wants it 'passionately' will tear it to pieces before he has a good chance to admire it anyway." Hook felt a shiver race through his body. This boy understood his innermost thoughts like no one else.

"You know, Pan, sometimes you sound half-way intelligent. If you hadn't spent all your time flittering about, you might have amounted to something interesting."

"I'm sure flittering is much better than what you've been forcing--" Peter stopped when he suddenly felt a familiarly large, firm hand tracing his spine and caressing the area hit so cruelly. Hook's voice was uncharacteristically shaky.

"Pan, I want to keep you forever and always... I'll be good to you if you can just act grateful." Peter said nothing. The captain got up and reattached his hook before walking out of the cabin. He returned with a bowl of porridge.

"I'm not hungry," Peter said promptly. He was deathly hungry, but he hated the way he often lost control of his emotions during the slight relaxation associated with eating. Beginning to cry at random in front of Smee was entirely different than in the presence of the captain.

"Smee told me you haven't eaten since morning. You're going to get sick if you never eat. Open up." Peter's mouth remained shut tightly, and Hook could insert the spoon only past the lips before it stopped at clenched teeth.

"Open your mouth," Hook repeated, taking care to sound calm, pulling the spoon back.

"I told you, I'm not..." but before Peter could re-close his mouth, the spoon had already darted in. The porridge was cold and absolutely tasteless, perhaps even a bit slimy. Peter spit it all out on the floor as soon as the spoon came out, and closed his eyes even before Hook's heavy hand landed with a terrific smack on the back of his head.

"Eat it off the floor now, you little princess." Peter looked away disdainfully. Hook was about to push Peter's face back into the bit of porridge on the floor, but stopped himself.

"I'll be nice to you, boy, despite your revolting behavior. You can thank those sparklers of yours for that." Hook pushed Peter over onto his back and kissed him briefly to remove a bit of porridge still on the lips. "I love you, Pan." Hook savored the words each time he pronounced them, but also felt the cold boring stare of the portrait on the opposite wall. Peter didn't opt to say anything.

"Pan? Don't be cold to me. I know you get a little stiff too." As soon as he touched the boy's groin, Peter's eyes bugged out in fear at the possibility of great pain. But Hook's hand merely rubbed gently.

"Do you like it?" Hook asked. Peter reddened. The naughty fairies, as Tink called them, who lived deep in the woods occasionally played with Peter like this. He enjoyed it.

"No." The hand briefly slid down to the boy's thighs, before creeping around and into the pants. Peter soon felt a long probing finger inside himself. His spine became rigid, his mouth tensed, and his thighs clapped together involuntarily.

"Glad I don't shove this up, eh, laddie?" The captain let his hook glisten menacingly in front of Peter's face before using it to gently fold away a few strands of hair from his eyes. It was when the second finger began to push its way in that Peter almost reflexively kneed Hook in the groin. The fingers immediately pulled out.

"You dirty little whore! Not grateful for my protection from the rest of those ruffians! I could always ask Bill and the gang to have a little fun with you--"

Hook got up and washed his hand in the basin. The crew had been asking for a night with Peter for days, but he had always refused, and even now swells of protective jealousy arose when he thought of handing the boy over. But the boy's behavior was infuriating and he had to be punished. "I have a feeling you'll regret your stubbornness soon enough, Pan."

Peter turned over onto his stomach to relieve the pressure on his hands, and turned his face away from Hook. The pain in the groin had subsided quickly, but the captain's anger was not so easy to extinguish. It was lust, mere lust, that he felt, Hook assured himself. He had never loved boys, and, in any case, Peter did not deserve his love. Hook squeezed the handle of his sword. He wanted to beat the child, rape him, stick knives into that tender flesh, rip him in half... for all those years of torment, and especially the confusing turmoil in him now.

But better to let the crew handle the punishment. It would instantly relieve the stirrings of mutiny that Hook's vast experience let him get whiffs of among his discontented men. Peter had evidently fallen asleep again, judging by the steady rise and fall of his ribcage. Hook walked around to get a view of the face. He wondered why the large eyes would never fully close in their relaxed state.

Hook sighed, feelings stirring again. The boy would come back with a better appreciation of what he had been spared all this time. He would learn the difference between love and lust. The boy would be forced to learn to love his protector sooner or later. Hook smiled blissfully at the fantasies that instantly began sprouting in his mind, and pushed all misgivings aside.


	3. Compliments of the Captain

His hands tied behind his back, his ankles chained to a cannonball, Peter was largely immobilized and at the mercy of the pirates sitting around the table. The party was not yet too rowdy-- they never were before midnight-- and the keg was just beginning to be passed around. Bill had brought the boy up from Hook's cabin as part of their entertainment, and Peter was now stationed on one of his knees. The boy had not enjoyed more than an hour of sleep on the floor in Hook's cabin, but dreading the likely purpose of his attendance at this gathering kept him admirably awake.

"Compliments of the cap'n," Bill said, stroking the little spine and shoulder blades with his right hand. His left was occupied in holding cards for the poker game that had ensued, as well as occasionally raising the keg up to his lips. Cecco was sitting to Bill's right and would pinch Peter's ass now and then, so lightly that it wasn't worth flinching. Starkey sat next to Cecco and stared hungrily at the little body.

"Why are you holding him, Bill, eh? What say you give someone else a turn?"

"What say the one who can't hold down a little kid shuts up?" The pirates all burst out laughing. They would never forget how in the first few days of his captivity, Peter, all tied up, still gave Starkey a black eye and almost bit clean through the hand when the latter sneaked into Hook's cabin for an extra session of pleasure. Starkey pouted in silence but not even long enough for the deck to be reshuffled.

"Hey girlie!... Girlie!... " He let out a few fetching whistles, but Peter refused to acknowledge him, especially when addressed that way. Starkey wouldn't give up.

"Hey, girlie, look at me when I'm callin' ya! ... Pan! What do you have to say, sweetie? You like Bill? You like getting jammed up with the big fat one?"

Peter said nothing, not even deigning to turn towards Starkey. Bill threw one burly arm across the boy's shoulders.

"Lay off the kid, will ya? What's he done to you?"

"The question's not what's he done, but how many times he's been done." Starkey smiled smugly, while Alf and Robert burst into raucous guffaws. Starkey was thus encouraged to continue his witless imbecility.

"He's practically the Cap'n's concubine, for God's sake. You like the big powerful ones, eh sweetie? ... Hey, lovey, how many times a day does Hook ride you?"

"More than you're ever likely to," Peter answered nonchalantly, throwing all four pirates except Starkey into fits.

"That's the way to talk!" Robert laughed. Alf reached across Bill and gave Peter a light punch in the stomach. Cecco slapped his behind quite hard in appreciation, while Bill brought him higher up his leg, pressing Peter's left side into the enormous paunch with a proprietary air. Starkey never looked so sour. He decided to change tactics.

"Why are you all laughing? Only the Cap'n and Bill get any playing time, while we're scrounging about, working off our asses without a taste of delight... I say it's high time we did some sharing, and I don't care if it's Alf or Rob or Cecc or me or anyone else as long as it's not Bill who always gets the little princess." Alf nodded and narrowed his one eye at Bill. Robert made a kissy mouth at Peter from across the table when the latter looked at him. Cecco thumbed the edge of one of his knives, his eyes obscured but his thoughts quite clear. The dreaded words were sung out by Starkey, and soon in chorus with the other three.

"Gang bang! Gang bang! ... "

Bill was evidently reluctant to give his little trophy away, but the group voice had to be obeyed on pain of destabilization of the band. And Bill wasn't one to start conflict.

"Let's see that tender little behind of yours... " snarled Starkey, trying to snatch off Peter's trousers, but Bill held the boy out of reach and proceeded to do the honors himself. As soon as the skin flashed, the pirates' eyes began to glow with insatiable lust. Peter was flung onto the floor. His tied-up hands were moved up, away from his bottom, and they each took a turn, usually one humping and the other holding Peter down, just in case.

"What's the matter? Don't squeal like a girl anymore, laddie?" Cecco leaned down to Peter's eye level, smiling his yellow grin, during Robert's turn. Forced entry hadn't really become less excruciating-- but the pain was now so familiar that Peter could focus on preserving his dignity. He had to relax. The pain would lessen if he could just concentrate on something else and put up a little less of a resistance with his muscles. The wooden floorboards smelled musty, but still better than the pirates mounting him, especially now that they were riled up, sweating and panting through their scurvy-ridden teeth.

Lying horizontally on the floor did not allow for as much pleasurable penetration for the rapists, so they soon settled on having Peter bend over a barrel. Bill held down the shoulders and cradled the head that wore such an agonized expression. Peter never cried out, but a few silent tears did fall to the deck. He began bleeding profusely somewhere during the third round, when Bill advocated to stop the game. Peter's face was deadened into a set visage.

"What's the matter, sweetie? Didn't you enjoy that? Your ass was dancing lovely rhythmically, you little whore. The Cap'n's taught him a few things!" Starkey still had a noticeable flush on his face from his recent exertions. Peter braced himself not to shake from the pain.

"Can you put me back in the cabin, Bill? Please?" He mustered to whisper, trying hard to keep his voice stable. Bill pretended not to hear.

"Whatcha mumblin' there, lovey?" Robert asked, propping his legs up on the table and taking a long swig from the keg.

"Aww, poor little Peter's little hole all bloody-wuddy?" Alf chimed in. "I'd have thought he'd be as loose as Indian rubber from Bill and the Cap'n after these three weeks."

"Aye, you're a tight little lad, arencha-- still tighter than a virgin wench. I guess that's the advantage of being forever young, eh?" The pirates burst out laughing at Cecco's snide remark. Tears finally began to stream down the pallid cheeks. Bill lifted Peter off his knee to discover a significant amount of blood had seeped through onto his own trousers.

"Hey, mates, listen, he's going to get sick or something if we don't clean this up... "

"Who the hell cares? Let him get sick!" Starkey yelled, reveling in witnessing the rare sight of Peter Pan crying.

"You should care-- next time you stick it to him, you'll get blisters or some other such thing all over your shaft!" The pirates quickly found a solution to the problem. They took a keg, and Bill applied the cheap alcohol over and into the anus. Peter bit his lip in an effort to prevent bawling, and soon drew blood at this end as well.

"Stings like a blade, no doubt?" Robert asked. "What say we give the boy some oral anesthetic! He deserves it, right?"

"Yeah, for being a mighty fine little whore," chimed in Cecco. "His ass's quality stuff... "

"Binge-drink!" Robert, Cecco and Alf began clamoring.

"Which one you want, Peter, the cheap weak one, or Hook's finest?" Cecco pulled out the two bottles back from under the table.

"I don't want anything of anybody's. Bill, let me go back, I'm really tired... "

"A little nightcap never hurt anyone!" Starkey shouted and began laughing, the only one amused by his platitude.

"Alright," said Bill. "I promised the Cap'n we'd bring him back in one piece. He's served us already, right?"

"The little ingrate's going to bed? We offer him expensive liquor and he wants to take a nap?!" Starkey was getting rowdy and slightly red. "I want to see the girlie choke on it... "

Cecco, Robert and Alf resumed their demands for a drinking binge, and Bill decided to fully oblige. He stuck the drink towards Peter, who turned his head away in disdain with what little pride he had left, only to have Bill grasp the delicate jaw between his fleshy thumb and index finger, and forcefully insert the bottle's head through the indignant lips. The bottom of the bottle rose, and little stray purple rivulets began streaming down Peter's chin. At first, Peter put up a fight, although struggling with no limbs at one's disposal took some creative mouth acrobatics. The boy kept trying to spit the bottle back out, sputtering, choking on the unpleasant liquid, until Cecco offered his assistance by squeezing the lips tight around the spout and making resistance nearly impossible.

"It's for your own good, idiot!" Cecco said, grabbing Peter by the ponytail with his other hand to anchor the head in place. "You'll feel marvelous before you know it."

The three others were grunting out primitive cheers and banging on the table with each successive movement of Peter's gullet. This exercise in coercion continued until the entire bottle was emptied, and the boy's little gut had grown noticeably distended. By the time he was put upright again, Peter's eyes were wandering vacantly and a disturbing smile spread across his face. He turned very pale, but also strangely flamboyant.

"How ya feelin', lovey?" Starkey asked, hoping for an incoherent answer.

"I'm feeling great... very great, absolutely great, except there's that fagging neeling in my ass... I can't believe I've never told you this before, Starkey, but you're... you're one ugly... one ugly son of a whore... " The pirates chuckled, Starkey grew red and tried to reach across the table in order to inflict some punishment on the mouth from which these slurred insults came. Peter was no longer capable of sitting upright and in balance, so Bill was fully supporting him with his hand, and nonchalantly blocked Starkey's violent advance.

"Sit down, Stark. You never leave the kid alone."

"Yeah... that's right!... That's right!" Peter paused between every phrase, having to concentrate on each syllable. His tongue felt heavy and unmanageable. His pupils were changing size randomly, and the pirates around the table were all becoming transfigured and doubled, so it was getting harder to be addressing Starkey in particular. "Bill could break your spine in half if he wanted to... " The boy was losing color fast, and his words were growing more garbled. Starkey huffed resentfully, but before he could say anything, Alf jumped to his feet as a torrent of dark red vomit spewed out of Peter's mouth, followed by a more discolored mixture.

"You dirty little whore!" Shouted Alf when he saw a few drops on his clothing. Bill had reflexively pushed Peter a little further down his leg, away from himself, and was temporarily not offering the boy his usual protection. Alf's wide swarthy hand whipped across Peter's cheek, and the blood immediately began to pool in the boy's mouth.

"Aww, Alf, he'll be all bruised! You shouldn't hit the face... " Cecco said. Even in his half-stupor, Peter reasoned he shouldn't spit the blood out, and felt the revolting metallic taste sliding thickly down his throat as he tried to swallow it all. At least the alcohol he hadn't puked up was dulling the pain.

"I'll hit what I want after he covers me with his filth."

"Get the mop, Starkey," said Bill.

"Me? Why me? Make the little prick clean it up himself!"

"Because you're the one who was all eager for a drink binge."

"No I wasn't! It was all Rob and Cecc!"

"I ain't cleaning that... " The two pirates immediately said in unison.

Peter's hands were untied and he was soon down on all fours over the mess he made. He was still too intoxicated to keep completely steady, and even had difficulty in picking up the rag thrown on the floor next to him. He was wiping very slowly, stopping every now and then to steady himself and try to refocus his eyes. The blood flow was slowing down, but sometimes it would still dribble out of the lips into the puddle he was cleaning. Peter's posterior, now so alluringly prominent, made most of the group harden up again.

"But he wasn't this bony before!" Remarked Robert. "I guess the Cap'n never feeds him proper."

"Aye, I'd like a bit more meat on him too." Cecco said.

"And I wouldn't mind a bit more padding. A little softness, so as he's more girl-like." Added Alf dreamily, perhaps recalling someone from the London pubs he frequented so long ago.

"If you guys want him to have any meat on his bones, we'd better stop the anal stuff at least for a while," Bill pointed out. "He's afraid to eat because it hurts like hell afterwards. And getting him to vomit up everything Smee convinced him to have earlier? Probably not the best way to get that ass any bigger... "

"I think it's better to keep riding him and just force-feeding him if he don't want to eat," Starkey said, staring hungrily at the small rear moving back and forth as Peter continued to wipe away the puddle. The boy was periodically rubbing his eyes, which kept moistening up now that his face was turned away from the pirates.

"Speaking of more girl-like... " Cecco said after a long silence. "What's been preventing us from taking Wendy aboard and having a little fun with a real girl for a change?"

Peter felt every limb tense up.

"Yeah, I'm sure it'd be nicer," said Robert. "She has breasts, right?"

"Nah, not really. Not yet. But still... it'd be better, if you know what I mean."

Peter suddenly forgot the apprehensive pessimism he'd acquired during his captivity at the mention of this most important remnant of his past life. He felt something boiling up, so powerful it was clearing the effects of inebriation.

"Don't talk about her like that." All five pirates were smirking.

"Don't worry, Peter, you'll still get plenty of action too, I'm sure," Robert said.

"I'm serious. Don't talk about Wendy."

"... or else Peter will be very, very upset," Cecco added. The other four snickered, but Peter was more confident when he was defending Wendy than himself.

"Yeah and Hook will be real upset too, when he sees what you did to my face, Alf. I'll tell him all about it."

"Why should he care?" Alf sounded less calm than he wanted to. "Think you're such a prettyboy? Besides, the Cap'n doesn't fancy lads."

"Oh, I don't know... " said Cecco. "He's been pretty gentle to Pan. He was planning to do all sorts of nastiness like gouge out his eyes and such. But he never went through with any of it, and keeps him in his cabin the entire day in pretty good condition, if you ask me."

"But it ain't like the Cap'n to give out his treasured loot to us... " Starkey protested, before Cecco cut him off.

"Aye, but I think he's just trying to keep himself from admitting to it. And he does warn us to take it easy." Alf looked about restlessly. Peter was still wiping away the puddle, relieved they'd forgotten about his friend.

Bill went over and finished it up for him, and then took the boy to the table, pushing the cannonball back with his foot. Peter sat still, only sucking back stifled tears draining into his nose. His arms were now free but hanging down limply, and the fog in his head was slowly clearing up into a massive headache. He was feeling faint, hungry, and depressed. Bill put a huge arm around the slight frame perched on his knee.

"What's the matter? How's your ass-- any better?"

Peter didn't reply and sat staring down at his thin thighs dejectedly. The hit side of his face was already noticeably swollen and the pain was only increasing as the intoxication wore off.

"You wanna take a leak, maybe?" Bill lightly squeezed the tiny body in efforts to get a response.

"Yeah. Please." Bill moved the cannonball to the side of the ship. He picked Peter up by the collar with one hand until the boy was high enough to prop his knees on the edge. Peter stared down blankly into the black waters to which he was contributing. Too demoralized to even turn over possible escape plans in his head, he only wished to sink down into that murk and never come up again.


	4. All Mechanical, Nothing Magical

Bill was breathing hard as he carried Peter down the stairs under one arm, lugging the cannonball in the other. He knocked on the cabin door with his foot, his stomach heaving up and down as he stood sweating, waiting for the captain to open the door.

Hook finally answered and Bill carried his load in. Hook looked displeased-- but he had always been annoyed with drunken crewmembers.

He looked down at the boy, his noble lineaments screwing up into a countenance of complete irritation when the light of the candle revealed some of the signs of the roughhousing.

"What the hell did you do with him?" Bill looked at Peter, and only now saw how obvious the abuse was-- the dry blood and semen on the boy's pants, the purple drops of vomit over the front, the bruise spreading across his cheek, as well as overall grime from the deck. Bill put both cannonball and boy gingerly on the carpet and made to leave, but the captain was imposingly blocking the door.

"Get those clothes off of him. I won't have him lying around in filth. And get a bath ready."

"With saltwater, Cap'n?"

"No, you imbecile, he's bleeding-- he needs fresh water."

"But we only have enough fresh water for your bath tomorrow..."

"I fear he needs it more than I do."

"And it's not heated... "

"Forget heating! Just fill the damn tub up. The small one." Bill was tired and drunk, but he did everything he was ordered, afraid to have annoyed the captain by now. Peter was unchained, carried out to the deck again, stripped, and pushed into water that felt like ice against his skin. While one hand painfully dug into Peter's shoulder, pressing his seat into the bottom of the wooden tub, the other was roughly grazing his body as a token of ‘washing'. Robert and Alf, who-- unlike the others-- were not already unconscious on the deck, bottles still half full in their hands, sauntered over to this new entertainment.

"Can we help ya with that, Bill?" Robert said, and Peter cringed more from the alcohol on his breath than the pirate's unwelcome hand on his bare chest.

"Yeah... " Alf was very drunk. His hand came down rather harshly on Peter's back and followed his spine into the water, all the way to the buttocks. Bill dunked Peter's head in and began to lather up his head with soap.

"Untie his damn hair first, you incompetent lummox... " Peter heard the captain's voice behind him. Robert and Alf immediately retreated away from the tub, and Bill frenzied up his efforts a bit. Everything was becoming more slippery, and Peter noticed how groggy and drunk Bill was. He looked up into the night sky above him, and suddenly knew he had to attempt it. Just as he felt Bill's hand relax around his body some, he leapt up. His shoulders glided right through Bill's hands, then his elbows, hands, knees,... Peter felt the chill air whipping against him and already set his sights on the moon, just as his ankles were snagged. Bill forcefully pulled the boy back down into the water. Peter was submerged, a huge merciless hand on his face, holding him under the surface for what seemed like an eternity. He was finally allowed to burst back out, coughing up water, gasping, and crying from fear and bitter disappointment.

"Serves you right. You know better than to do that," Bill said, still flustered over what might have happened had he let the boy escape under the captain's very eyes.

"Bring him back to my cabin, if you're quite finished,” Hook muttered. "And put this on him." He flung a nightgown onto the deck, having found nothing else suitable for Peter. Smee had sewn together several outfits for the boy recently, but they invariably ended up ruined rather quickly, leaving nothing appropriate for Peter to wear now. Bill pulled Peter out and dried him off with a dirty rag he found on the floor nearby. He pulled the large nightgown over Peter’s head, the boy submitting to everything without protest after his recent terrifying ordeal. Bill took the boy under his arm by the waist in a most undignified manner-- the head facing away from the direction of movement, the boy’s backside in front-- affording the pirate a fine opportunity to pat and squeeze the lovely tight buttocks enveloped in satin as he headed to return him to the captain's room.

***

Hook blew out the candle and closed his heavy eyelids, savoring the softness of his bed, and listening to Peter's occasional convulsive sobs with detached satisfaction. The boy deserved to be punished.

"Tell me you love me and I'll untie your hands for the night, Pan," Hook said. There was a long silence, before Peter's faltering voice emerged from the pitch darkness of the cabin.

"Let me go and I'll say I do."

Hook chuckled. "At least I see your sense of humor is still intact." It had been a very long day and Hook was intent on falling asleep before daybreak.

The captain was awakened by a very loud sound. He thought he had heard the boy's entire repertoire of moans and sobs, but this sort of pathetic wailing was something new. Hook felt mild alarm at how unabashedly Peter was blubbering away, but any concern he felt was overshadowed by his annoyance at being wakened.

"Shut up, Pan. What the hell is wrong with you?"

"My stomach's really hurting... "

"Well that's hardly worth bawling over like that. Shut up and try to sleep." Hook tossed over to his side. Peter quieted down for a few minutes, but soon Hook could hear his little sobs again. More fully awake by now, Hook felt concern begin to outweigh his irritation. The boy was obviously hurting. He should never have given him to his crew that evening.

"Pan, what's the matter?" The sobbing continued. "If you're not going to tell me, shut your trap and keep quiet! Some of us don't like staying up all night."

"I'm going to die... it feels like a knife in my side... I couldn't fall asleep, and it's only getting worse... " Hook groaned and relit the candle near his bed to see its flame dancing in Peter's wet eyes staring up at him. The captain grudgingly got out of bed and examined Peter's abdomen by pressing in various places. It was the lower right that made Peter jerk and burst into tears anew. Hook cursed loudly. He had seen this same malady long ago, on ships before he had advanced to captain. The ship's surgeon on one of them had known how to treat it, and Hook vaguely remembered one such life-saving operation, which he had watched with great attention, having had many interests in his youth. It had to be done quickly, he knew, but how quickly? Could it wait until morning?

"Pan, I think your gut's inflamed. Happens sometimes. Can you bear it until morning?"

"What happens in the morning?" Peter's face, illuminated by one candle, pale lips trembling, eyes glistening, was the picture of angelic suffering. The bruise was darker now, but the swelling hadn't increased so his eyes were still roughly the same size. There was no sense in waiting until morning, Hook realized. He was too anxious for going back to sleep.

"Nothing happens in the morning. We'll do it now." Peter's eyes grew even larger, but he decided not to re-ask the question. Hook dressed himself and walked out with the candle, leaving the door wide open. Peter bent over double in an attempt to deal with the pain, which was competing with his severe sleep deprivation. Sudden terror seized him when he thought he heard something scurrying across the floor in the darkness. Peter thought he could make out swarms of rats rushing into the cabin. They'd bite him if he continued to lie on the floor. Despite the great pain he was in, Peter made a concentrated effort and lifted off the floorboards entirely, as far up as the tethering chain would let him. Remaining suspended in mid-air was hard when the steady, nagging pain was punctuated by sharp jolts of agony.

He heard Hook somewhere far away ordering Smee, then the rest of the crew, to prepare for something. When would he come back already? In periods of no shooting pain, Peter felt his eyes beginning to close shut of their own accord, and his whole body would drop an inch or two before he wakened out of the relative peace back into grim, agonizing reality. Finally Peter saw the light of the candle again, announcing Hook's arrival shortly before the man himself entered the cabin. Peter welcomed the captain's familiar grip on his body. Hook knelt down, untied Peter's hands and then unchained his ankles, being careful to clutch the boy tightly to his chest. To the captain's astonishment, Peter latched onto his coat just as fervently once his hands were free, and pressed himself into Hook's torso quite willingly.

"What's the matter with you?" Hook asked, more gruffly than he intended.

"There's rats all over the cabin. Don't put me down on the floor... " Peter's entire body was shaking. The boy's completely lost it, Hook decided. And it was his fault, if anybody's. He took advantage of the magical moment and began loosening his grip on Peter, who nevertheless remained attached of his own accord. The captain knew this might be the only time he would ever have such an experience. He tenderly ran his hand through Peter's hair, which was still untied and silky smooth after the recent washing, and noticed in surprise that he felt no annoyance at the boy for rubbing his wet eyes and nose against his shoulder.

"There are no rats in here, lad. Stop trembling. I hardly recognize you like this... "

"I'm going to die... " Peter's voice was hard to understand through all the sobbing. "There's something really wrong inside me." Hook pulled Peter away and grasped him in both arms. His face was deathly pale, and Hook could see cold sweat emerge on the child's forehead. He carried the boy up the stairs to the deck. Peter was in such a weak condition that Hook wondered if he even realized what a golden opportunity this was to attempt escape. The boy's knuckles were turning white from clutching at Hook's clothing so tightly.

The crew was standing around their meal table, very drunk and barely awake, to the captain's great irritation. The painkiller tonic Smee had made in large batches some time ago was nowhere to be found, so Starkey was sent off to find more of the shrub on land.

Bill came down with the bowl of alcohol. Alf carried in the torch.

Robert prepared bandages just in case, and Cecco sharpened the knife to be used. Hook looked down at Peter in his arms, who was swiveling his head back and forth in alarm. He would not even be able to give the boy alcohol to take the edge off the pain, for fear of thinning his blood. The last thing they needed was an uncontrolled blood flow. Peter finally turned back to Hook, his large eyes full of utterly unearned trust.

"So we're doing this raw and live?" Cecco asked incredulously after Hook explained all he could remember about the operation. "I need someone to restrain him, then. It's going to hurt like hell thrice over."

The nightgown was taken off, and Peter was laid out on the pirates' meal table. The boy was shaking with trepidation and pain. Bill grabbed both arms, while Alf took the legs and pinned them down to the table.

"You don't have to cut me!" Peter appealed to Hook as soon as he saw the silver glimmer of the knife in Cecco's hands so close to his body.

"It's alright! I'll just bear it out! It'll go away sooner or later. I'll stop crying, I promise!" Tears began streaming out of his eyes anew.

"Shh, calm down... We don't want that lovely tongue bitten off, eh, lad?" Hook said, wedging a wad of rag into Peter's mouth, pushing the boy's tongue back against his throat.

Robert held the torch up above Cecco to illuminate his work. Cecco dabbed the liquor on the white skin. He held the knife in the flame for a few seconds, then made the first incision. Peter's body did something of a violent squirm, and his eyes went wild. Bill and Alf were doing all they could to hold the little body down.

"You guys have to hold him," Cecco laughed. "I can't do it if he's moving."

It was all Hook could do to contain the rage boiling up in him when he heard how slurred Cecco's words were. Cecco tried again and his initial plunge was deeper this time. Everyone heard a renewed muffled outburst from Peter.

"You worthless drunken bilgerat!" Hook pushed Cecco out of the way and took his place at the table. "You're cutting him like a bloody piece of butcher meat!"

Despite having only one hand, the captain put his hook to good use after holding it in the flame. His incision through Peter's skin and abdominal muscle was very neat. Hook felt a twinge of fear unbecoming a pirate on seeing just how slippery and red everything was right underneath that snowy skin. Here were the entrails he had so fervently wanted to see on the end of his sword. Here was a glimpse of the indomitable Peter Pan's inner workings. Such pathetic simplicity and mortality -- blood, bodily humors, tendons, bones -- all mechanical, nothing magical. Peter was bawling through the muffling rag, and kept banging his head on the table, his neck being one of the few things left unrestrained.

"Don't do that, son," Smee slipped a tarpaulin folded over many times under Peter's head to cushion the impact. He then held up a small kerchief to shield Peter's face from a view of his own bowels. "I don't think you should be seein' them things down there... "

Hook realized with dismay that the old dotard was the only dependable crewmember he had. He could feel sweat emerge on his forehead, either from the torch just above his head or his difficulty in finding the small outgrowth in that jumbled internal mess. Peter was constantly trying to wriggle out of the painful grasps that sprawled him out. Hook made the cut a bit longer and spread it apart with hook and knife, terrified at the realization that the incision should probably have been made an inch or two lower. He made another incision perpendicular to the first one and finally spotted what he was looking for. The captain cut it out as precisely as he could with Peter's torso still struggling-- and sometimes succeeding-- to move. The piece of gut was short and sticky with blood, and Hook felt reassured by its similar size and shape to what he remembered from so long ago. Smee moved in with the needle, but the cut had to be enlarged horizontally again for this latter half of the work. The intestine was sewn back together securely and Robert doused everything inside with liquor. Hook had to remind Smee to use only loose threading for the muscle in order to allow for the later extraction of the string.

The whole operation took longer than expected, and Hook cringed whenever he looked at how sloppy the three connected cuts were. The ugly red incisions would surely leave unsightly scars on that tender flesh. Tears were flowing freely from Peter's beautiful eyes, and his chest bounced up and down with stifled sobs.

Starkey was taking too long to bring the plant, probaby having difficulty finding it in this unfamiliar territory. Peter continued to be in hysterics from the pain for the nearly two hours it took for the man to return. The boy's hands kept wandering over to his wound, which was bandaged up with alcohol-soaked gauze. Hook at first laid him out on his bed, holding only his arms down, but the boy continued to wail and twist his body, threatening to undo the stitches precariously holding his side together. Hook thus opted to take the boy's entire body up into a tight embrace, suppressing all his struggles. Thus he stayed for those seemingly endless hours, rocking the boy back and forth like an overgrown, lanky infant, listening to Peter continuously repeating what to him seemed some of the most abhorrent sounds to grace the earth -- piercing, teary-eyed howls and unintelligible words, followed by hoarser shrieks, and finally quiet and prolonged moans.

Smee finally brought the drink he had made for Peter from the leaves of the plant, and Hook barely managed to force the bitter painkiller down Peter's throat. Within a quarter of an hour, Peter was still aware of the pain but it seemed more distant and dispersed. He succumbed to sleep, amazing Hook with how quickly his pain-wracked face softened back into its customary tranquility and innocence of unconsciousness.

***

Peter awoke to the horrible sensation of things beginning to slide out of him. Even before he gasped, he felt the backs of his thighs become mired in the grime. It took him longer to remember why there was throbbing pain in his side, and to realize that he was lying naked in Hook's bed, one of his wrists manacled and attached to the bedpost by a short chain. Hook lifted his head up from his arms on the desk at the sound of the gasp, and before long was at Peter's side lifting the layers of sheets off, trying to overcome his grogginess. The boy was beginning to cry. He feared Hook's inevitable anger far less than the fact that he could no longer control his own bowels.

"Stop sniveling, lad." Hook said with astonishing calmness. He proceeded to call Smee in, who took all the bedcovers, sheets and the blanket off for washing while Hook held the naked boy in his arms, still attached to the bed. Bill was ordered to fill a small tub of water and bring it in. Hook decided to bathe Peter right on the spot. He turned up his sleeves and took off his appendage, then took up Peter's entire gangly body with his right arm, the boy's back pressing into Hook's chest and his legs draped over the man's forearm. Peter shivered as he felt the frightening stumped end against the tender inside of his left knee. Hook lowered Peter down into the tub in this fashion, immersing only the boy's bottom in the water. The boy startled from the coldness.

"Please-- try not to splash. We don't want to get your cut wet just yet. And your muscle's not even sewn back together, so calm down before you rip yourself a bigger hole." Hook's left hand began to wash the boy's nether region. The captain had to smile when he saw the blazing red of Peter's face, and how much shame was revealed in the eyes directed downward into the water. Peter was expecting probing fingers to enter him at any moment, but Hook's hand entered the crevice only to give a thorough cleaning, without any gratuitous penetration.

"I'm sorry about your bed... " Peter said quietly after a long silence, during which only the sloshing of the water could be heard. Hook continued to stroke-wash the backs of Peter's thighs. The boy's blood had often stained the bed before, whenever Hook had been less careful. But it was the sense of personal and humiliating responsibility in this case that horrified Peter.

"It's not your fault. It happens after operations." Hook earnestly hoped it was the operation, and not his crew's roughhousing the previous night. "At least it wasn't painful this time, I take it?"

"Almost didn't hurt." Peter agreed. The violent blushing was beginning to subside. Hook took Peter out and dabbed a towel on his wet bottom, while Smee brought in and laid out an entire new bedspread.

"How's that cut of yours, son?" It seemed to Peter that he hadn't heard the sound of Smee's kind, grandfatherly voice for ages. The operation seeming distant and surreal.

"Better by the minute... " Peter smiled wanly. In the past three weeks, he had always much preferred Smee's company to Hook's. But at the moment, being held in the captain's powerful arms made him overlook how they had held him down equally forcefully during those painful and humiliating sessions. He thought back to his irrational fears of rats in the cabin, the whole previous night's proceedings feeling more like a dream than anything real. What did remain was a sense of pathetic gratitude to the captain for his protective vise-like grip.

"Stop dawdling, Smee, and get started on dinner," Hook barked. So it was late afternoon already, Peter realized. Time had melted into an indistinguishable mass since yesterday evening. Smee quickly trudged out of the cabin after the obligatory ‘Yes, Cap'n.' Hook pulled back the covers and laid Peter in the bed, tucking him in securely. Peter threw a quick, nervous glance at the spotless linens in which he was so tightly implanted.

"But what if I soil it again?"

"Try not to. But nothing's too good for you, Pan. You're going to recover nice and fast, if I can help it." Peter continued to look about uneasily. He had never fallen asleep in a bed before, much less in one as luxuriously large as the captain's. He might have been annoyed by the way his body sank into the mattress underneath and at how constricting it felt with all the sheets and bedspread piled on top of him, but his present weakness welcomed all these things. He wanted to be held tightly and warmly. It decreased the pain in his stomach somewhat. He only wished the tether to the bedpost had been longer and allowed his left arm to retreat under the covers out of the chill air of the cabin. He dug his head back into the pillow in an attempt to stop the strange throbbing in his forehead. Nothing ever felt right in his body lately.

"Are you being nice to me because I'm sick?" he suddenly asked. Hook had remained standing over Peter, troubled by the newly-emerged blisters he noticed on the boy's lips. "Because I'm going to die?"

"I'm being nice because you don't act like such a repulsive little brat when you feel ill." Hook leaned in and pressed his lips to Peter's forehead, confirming the presence of fever that he feared. Peter's breathing was a bit labored and he was shivering. The fever was still rising, then. Hook's mind began racing. There must have been an infection driven in.

"You don't really want to die, do you, Peter?" The boy looked at Hook quizzically without answering. "You have to want to live, lad. You won't ever get better otherwise."

A weak smile spread on Peter's face. "Maybe I'll just always stay a little sick so that you'll treat me nicely." Hook was grating his teeth, hardly listening. He had used the torch... he had held all the instruments in the fire before using them... he had doused with strong alcohol... even Smee's thread had been soaked in it...

"I'm actually a bit hungry. Can I have something?" Hook's hopes rose, seeing the boy was not feeling so ill yet.

"I suppose something liquid would be alright." He checked the boy's pulse on the arm not manacled at the wrist. Peter's skin was already turning lighter from spending most of his time indoors. Or was he simply turning ghostly pale all over, Hook wondered. The pulse was a bit high but nothing extraordinary.

Hook brought Peter a bouillon of bird meat, and the boy began swallowing it down eagerly, disregarding the humiliation of being spoon-fed, until he decided to ask what ‘soup' consisted of. On finding out, Peter lost any semblance of an appetite and curled his body up-- only the hand manacled to the bedpost still extended-- feeling betrayed and nauseated.

"Stupid, ignorant boy. This will make you better, help you rebuild your little insides. I won't give you anything else." Hook held the spoon out expectantly, careful not to drip it onto the bed, on the edge of which he was sitting. Peter had to admit that he had liked the taste and especially the warmth of the clear broth flowing down into his core, radiating soothing heat into the rest of his stomach. To Hook's unmistakable delight, Peter opened his mouth. The spoon began moving back and forth again, and the small bowl was soon finished off.

"What did you usually eat, anyway?" Hook asked, wiping Peter's mouth off with his kerchief. Peter's eyes grew distant for an instant, escaping their pained expression as he remembered more pleasant times.

"Berries. All kinds of berries. Except the poisonous ones, of course."

"And that's all?" Hook asked incredulously, stroking the periphery of Peter's face, worried by how much heat was emanating from it. "Small wonder, then, that you can never grow up. You're not a canary, Pan. You have to learn to live like a human being." There was a long silence, their gazes locked on each other. Peter's cheeks were flushing red, in stark contrast to the rest of his paleness. Hook suddenly began to feel familiar desire rise up again, but this time utter disgust accompanied the feeling. The boy was hurt, feverish, maybe even dying, and all he managed to think of was satisfying a depraved passion. Hook emphatically crossed his legs, but continued to peruse Peter's face. He was a mere child, after all, desperate to trust someone despite everything he'd been through. So desperate... so pathetic, needy, and vulnerable. He did not deserve to be forced to serve anyone so vilely, even in the best of health, Hook grudgingly admitted to himself. Peter began shifting uncomfortably under the bedspread.

"You better not be touching your cut, Pan." Peter stopped moving and averted his eyes.

"... It hurts," he said quietly. "Can I have more of that medicine?"

"No, you'll never heal up if we keep thinning your blood with that. Just bear it."

Peter's eyes were starting to shut of their own accord from time to time. Hook knelt down on the floor and ran his hand through Peter's loose hair. He caught himself saying an internal prayer to no one in particular. It had been a customary habit of his when he was younger and not quite so disillusioned with the world.

No, there were no deities. It was he and Peter alone in this world, and anything that happened to the boy was entirely his responsibility.

Peter had just fallen asleep, despite his attempts to stay awake while Hook's intense stare was still on him. His body gave a jerk from the first brief frightening dream -- something the captain himself remembered often experiencing as a child. Hook felt something quaking inside him. He wished he could share Peter's nonchalance about death.


	5. Fairies are the Perfect Size

Peter's illness took a turn for the worse shortly after he fell asleep, and by the evening of the next day Hook was losing hope for the boy's survival. Peter's lips were completely chapped, and his eyes had a frighteningly glazed look. Each breath was an arduous undertaking. Hook had taken off all the covers and would anxiously rub down Peter's skin with distilled alcohol every hour or so in efforts to bring down the life-threatening fever. The captain was just finishing another rubdown, as Peter's teeth began to chatter.

"Please stop," the boy's voice finally sounded, grown hoarse with disuse in the past several hours. "I'm very, very cold."

"You're not cold, you're burning up," Hook muttered. He could not decide whether he had lost faith in the boy's recovery yet or not. He felt anger at no one in particular. "Do you want to live, Pan?"

"Yes," The boy swallowed, trying to clear out his dry throat. "But not here. I don't want to be a prisoner any more."

Already irritated by his inability to save the boy, Hook's emotions were boiling up. "Oh, good. Go ahead and leave. You want to die in the woods, like a wild beast? No one is going to take care of you there."

Peter's thoughts were clouded by the fatigue and slight pain all over his body, but he still felt an emotional hurt coming on. "I guess so. None of my friends care about me. None of them even tried to rescue me. They just left me here alone, to die among enemies."

"I'm not your enemy, Pan. I'd tell you I love you, but you won't believe me." Peter turned his head slightly, face the captain more directly, but his eyes were still gazing oddly far away.

"Do you remember when you were hurting?" Hook said. "When you clutched at me, and cried into my shoulder? That was the best feeling anyone had ever given me. Had you no need to be afraid or in pain to do that... perhaps I would not need to hurt you to get pleasure."

"Even if I were to love you... it wouldn't be in the same way," Peter said sullenly. There was a long silence, during which Hook tried to avoid thinking about the impossibility of his nebulous wishes and the true bleakness of his life.

"If you really love me-- don't use me anymore," Peter said with a sudden forcefulness. This was easy enough to promise at the moment. The boy's saliva was almost frothing in the mouth, his entire visage and usually intelligent expression were disfigured by his feverish state into a melancholy stupor, and his naked body lay pale, limp, and disturbingly emaciated on the bed. Hook did not have carnal desires for the boy when he was so close to death, but he knew this was no good indicator of his real feelings.

"If I get better, will you keep me chained so painfully tight again, and use me when you want?" Peter's eyes opened a little wider, and Hook felt a shiver down his spine.

"No. If you get better, I'll treat you nicely." Scenes of wild abandon immediately weaved like a lightning bolt through Hook's mind. He saw Peter in all his healthy glory, both arms chained to the bed-- painted up with his mother's makeup just enough to accentuate his best features-- tantalizing him with undulating motions of his lower body only possible without the effects of gravity... Beguiling him to sink his fingers into the snowy skin... Lips parting, the tongue peeking through the pearly whites now and then ... And, most of all, his eyes, blinking ever so slowly, as if the eyelashes were too long and heavy to move quickly. Hook forced himself out of the decadent reverie. "And I won't defile you anymore. I'll swear it. But you better heal up. If you die, it will hurt a hundred times as much as it did when we cut you."

The very act of the promise made Hook eager to spread those thin legs and break his oath, here and now. But all of it was for the best, the captain decided. As a self-respecting gentleman, he had to rid himself of his addiction. It made him not only morally despicable, but vulnerable and weak. Besides, the boy had suffered enough. Hook renewed his rubdown efforts, as Peter could only moan in disapproval at how quickly the heat was whisked away from his skin, having no strength to try to squirm away.

Finished, Hook walked around to the other side of the wide bed and lay down side by side with Peter, wondering whether he was truly concerned about the boy anymore, now that pleasurable release was not his promised reward. There was no actual use for Peter on the ship, but Hook could not imagine setting him free. No-- he would at least keep him as a prized possession. Perhaps pamper him. Deck him out in the best jewels from his troves. Let him eat berry preserves by the jar. In short, spoil the child rotten. It would be alright, as long as he could hold Peter captive, and as long as everything that happened to the boy was under his control. This illness, on the other hand, infuriated Hook with its unpredictability.

"Please cover me. I'm so cold," Peter begged. Hook grudgingly pulled one sheet over both of their bodies, unwilling to allow the fever to continue rising. The captain hated feeling so powerless. He wanted to share Peter's illness, even take it on completely for a time, just to see the boy stop breathing so heavily and smile for a change. Peter's teeth were still chattering, and his skin was all goose bumps. His eyes were directed at the ceiling and were so empty that Hook doubted whether the boy was even aware of him anymore.

"Sometimes, I wish I had a mother... " Peter suddenly confided. Funny that he occasionally had the absolute opposite sentiments, Hook thought wistfully. He hated to see the boy in such a delirious state.

"You must have had one, my boy."

"No," Peter shook his head ever so slightly. "I tell stories about her. But I don't really remember a mother at all. Maybe I never had one."

Hook smiled. "Well there's a very easy way to verify that," his hand sliding along Peter's chest, down to the sunken in abdomen, just below his ribcage. "And here we have the unequivocal evidence."

"Where?" Peter lifted his head up with a jerk, pulling the sheet off, frantically searching his stomach. Hook chuckled, and put his finger to the navel.

"What does it mean?" Peter looked up, his eyes more focused than before, but with a fevered frenzy dancing in them, so that Hook could not be sure which of the two was healthier.

"Shh, lie down," The captain gently pushed Peter's head back into the pillow. "It means that that's where you were tied to your mother."

"So she cut me off? She didn't want me?"

Hook smiled at this profound gap in the boy's understanding of the world and his utter insecurity. He suddenly felt ashamed at how selfishly and childishly he had been acting these last few weeks. He ran his fingers through Peter's hair. "Who wouldn't want you? This," Hook touched the navel again. "Consider it the first kiss you got. When a baby is born, he gets a kiss from his mother right there. It means she loves you very much." Peter's unmanacled hand was exploring the token of love he had paid no attention to before, while his eyes stared at nothing in particular. He was mouthing inaudible words, now that the tooth chattering had subsided.

"And I suppose this is my mark of love on your body," Hook ran his fingers over the tripartite scar near the boy's right hipbone. "I sure did a number on you lad."

Hook suddenly felt something moist on his hand. He leaned over to examine the cut more closely, and to his horror discovered that he could see pus seeping out from most of the incision between the stitches. Without second thoughts, Hook leaned over and applied the suction of his mouth to Peter's wound. The taste was horrible, and the captain felt himself retching as he sucked more and more of the milky substance out. Some of it was congealed, and slid into Hook's mouth in slimy globules. He spit the contents of his mouth onto the floor, and proceeded to extract yet more of the infectious gunk from Peter, who was only partially aware of what was being done to him. When no more could be sucked out, Hook rushed over to find a bottle of something-- anything-- alcoholic. Yet before applying his mouth to the neck of the bottle of gin he found on the floor of his closet, the captain remembered to suffer a little longer and first douse Peter's poorly sealed wound with the drink while it was still untainted. This made Peter hurt greatly, but his most vociferous disapproval possible at this point was a feeble groan. Hook finally rinsed his mouth with gin before swallowing it down, eager to wash out the nasty bitter taste. He lay back by Peter's side, dismayed by the heaviness of the boy's breathing.

"Looks as if we did get dirt into you, lad... " He said after a long silence. Peter no longer gave discernable reactions. Hook gently pressed his lips to his charge's neck, and wrapped his arms around the motionless frame-- only the continuous heaving of the ribcage assuring him that the boy was still with him. He attempted to close the boy's eyelids, but they flew open again immediately. Perhaps the boy could not sleep, but Hook was immensely tired.

He awoke to find Peter completely still and disturbingly cold. This time the eyelids did not fly back open after being closed. Hook suppressed his emotions. He took up the corpse's legs and raped it particularly forcefully one last time, finally bursting into tears upon climaxing into the unresponsive, pallid cadaver.

Peter awoke feeling hot and stifled. One of Hook's arms lay across his chest, and his other came under Peter's neck before the hand locked together with the metal hook he had neglected to take off, resulting in a lax embrace around his shoulders. Peter could not help but feel uneasy about the hardness he sensed pressing up against his lower thigh and rubbing itself in with great fervor and regularity. The man was still asleep, as Peter saw, but the rubbing was becoming a tad rough, while Hook's face became progressively more pain-wracked.

"I'm thirsty," was the phrase that awakened Hook out of his unpleasantly fitful sleep. Peter was still safely in his arms, and the usual sparkle in his eyes had returned. The boy's slight alarm subsided when he saw that Hook, once awake, thankfully made no further moves other than wiping off the moisture that suddenly spurted out of his eyes as he opened them. The fever was apparently down, and every strand of Peter's hair, the sheets, and even the sleeves of Hook's coat, were practically drenched in the cold sweat. It was a far happier scenario than what Hook's dreams had portended, and it was all the man could do to try to maintain his dignified reserve instead of laughing for joy at this small triumph over fate.

***

Peter sat on the deck very quietly. It had been several days after the height of his fever that they dared to reopen the muscle and extract the string from his guts. Hook had given him a bit of painkiller before the light operation, but not nearly enough to make it truly bearable, so Peter had to be restrained anyway. Now, a whole night later, Peter's side was still throbbing. The captain decided his charge could use some fresh air every day, and had taken to bringing the boy out to sit on the deck as soon as the fever let up-- bidding him to expose his wound to the sunlight for faster healing. Peter did like the sea breeze better than the usually stuffy cabin, but the wide expanse of sky above him was often a bitter reminder of his confinement. The intensity of pain in his side on this morning banished all thoughts of escape, however. His entire concentration was directed internally, and the travelogue he was supposed to be reading was open to the appropriate page, but lay on the deck.

The captain considered it an abomination that someone of Peter's apparent age and capabilities should be illiterate. In fact, Peter had always assumed he could read-- only that he never tried. What prompted Hook to start teaching the boy the alphabet was the completely blank stare he received when he commented with a laugh that the scar on Peter's body resembled an ‘H' from the side. The first such tutorial session took place when Peter was well enough to be bored lying in bed all day, and it ended in tears on Peter's part while Hook stormed out of the cabin, not even the entire alphabet covered. The boy had never aimed to please Hook, but the latter's comments about Peter's incompetence were hurtful when no one else was present to give a differing opinion. It was when Smee came in to clean the cabin, and tried to calm the stifled crying of the boy chained to the bed, that Peter grew determined to learn to read-- if only to spite Hook. Smee, who maintained that his reading had grown weak over the years, was a far more patient teacher, and after seeing the fast improvements in the boy's reading, even the captain approved of the interaction.

The shore was unfamiliar. Peter wondered how far away from the cove Hook had sailed. He yearned for more of the painkiller, as the nagging pain returned with renewed intensity, feeling as if it were pouring out of his side. Peter picked up the book, knowing that Hook expected him to read at least a couple of pages from it, but shuddered and felt his face become numb as soon as he looked down at the text. Nausea swept over him as the ship rocked up and down on a rough bit of sea. Even if he could stand up, Peter estimated that the chain would not let him approach the edge to sick overboard. It was just as he was contemplating the possible consequences of heaving onto the deck, that he spotted a small sparkling light over the water, growing nearer. Peter's heart skipped a beat. The light was headed straight for the ship, and before long the boy's suspicions were confirmed when he could finally discern a small fairy figure in the light. The creature flew up to the upper deck, poking around into crevices, peeking into some coiled rope on the floor before fixing her gaze onto the eyes that were studying her motions. She cocked her head, turned and was about to fly off.

"Don't go... " Peter said.

The fairy turned back towards him, but remained a cautious distance away. By all appearances, she was even of the same fairy race as Tinker Bell.

"We fairies don't talk to humans."

"I know. I was raised by fairies." Peter smiled, trying to push the pain out of his mind. The fairy was looking at him incredulously. "I'm Peter Pan."

The name was apparently unfamiliar to her. "Don't you know? The flying boy? The... " Peter was about to append his former title as he always did before being captured. Peter Pan, Ruler of Neverland. His present condition rendered the claim somewhat ridiculous. "The boy who fights-- fought-- pirates and... "

"I've never heard of you. But I know about pirates. The other fairies were talking about this pirate ship being in the neighborhood. Are you a pirate?"

"No... "

"Then what are you doing on their ship? The others said pirates are dangerous." The fairy looked over him, noticing his chained ankle for the first time. "Are you their prisoner?"

"No," Peter answered rather sharply, to his own surprise. "Listen, do you know a fairy called Tinker Bell? She was my friend."

"No," the fairy was still looking at him suspiciously. "What did you say your name was?"

"Peter Pan," the boy said somewhat dejectedly. This was certainly one of the most empty-headed fairies he had ever met.

"Should I tell the others that Peter Pan is chained up on the pirates' ship?" The very sentence made Peter cringe, but the fairy continued her high-pitched babbling. "Maybe they know you. I am still quite young, you know, so I don't know about everything."

"No, forget about this. Don't report anything about me."

The fairy flew in much closer. "I've never seen a real human before." She touched her tiny hand to his nose. Peter's eyes, each a good deal larger than her head, were following her every move, blinking from time to time, the pupil inside the green iris noticeably expanding and constricting. Being a young fairy, she still inadvertently spilled a lot of dust from time to time. Peter sneezed violently after one such dust flare-up, spooking the fairy enough to make her threaten leaving.

"Please stay," he pleaded. "I'm not always very careful. I'm sorry."

"Yes, the other fairies have told me some things about you humans... "

"Oh?" Peter said curiously.

"They say you humans are the deafest and blindest creatures in the world. That's why you always make so much noise and can never catch anything."

Peter grinned. "I bet I could catch you. At least I can fly."

"Not all humans can fly?"

"No-- not most, actually."

The fairy alighted onto Peter's shoulder, naively confident that the boy would not try to pull some mischief and slap her off. Indeed, this was farthest from Peter's thoughts. She was eerily similar to Tinker Bell in some respects, and now that she was sitting on his shoulder, he had to remind himself that she was not, actually, his oldest of friends.

"What a terrible existence it must be without flying! Humans sound like the most miserable creatures on earth."

"At least we don't have flimsy wings that can be pulled off with two fingers," Peter winked, and a chuckle born deep inside his chest, rattled up to his throat-- vibrating the shoulder bones the fairy was sitting on quite strongly.

"I think we're the perfect size," the fairy squeaked indignantly. "You're too big to even move around much!"

Peter's grin shrank somewhat. "I was only kidding. I think you're the perfect size too." He desperately wanted the chain and the ache to be gone. To fly into the sky and show off the speed that rendered him the fastest creature in Neverland. But there was no use in bragging about it without demonstration.

"Which part of Neverland is this, anyway?" he asked, still not turning his head so as not to frighten her with a loud voice. Surely even someone like her would know the answer to this question.

"Neverland?" The fairy jumped off his shoulder, and proceeded to explore the exposed wound she had just spotted.

"Yes, Neverland. This island you live on is called Neverland."

"Must be a different island," she shrugged her shoulders. Put off by the unfamiliar smell of blood, she jumped to one of his knees.

Peter's irritation was growing. "No, this is Neverland! There are no other islands!" The fairy looked at him with a blank expression.

"You humans are even stranger than I've heard tell. I'll come back and visit you again when I have time. Good-bye!" She headed out across the water back to land.

When she'd have time, Peter smirked. As if fairies were ever truly busy. And with the ship moving at this speed, he guessed he would probably never see her again. At least she had kept him somewhat entertained. Peter gathered his legs up closer to his body, and grimaced when he heard the disheartening jangle of the chain as he moved his ankle. He wished to be as far from the ship as the ball of light was by now.

Peter resumed reading, but soon heard footsteps on the stairs to upper deck. The boy could discern that they were neither the captain's nor Smee's, so he buried his face deeper into the book, feeling tension already building.

"Hello, Peter," the boy looked up at the two leering faces above him, and felt self-disgust at how fast his heart was beginning to beat. Robert crouched down and unsuccessfully tried to pull the book out of Peter's hands. The pirate's hand then traveled around and squeezed Peter's behind playfully. "What's the news from the Cap'n? Will we be getting another taste of this any time soon?"

The boy's fist suddenly whipped out against the pirate's face. Robert jumped to his feet, a tiny stream of blood running out of one nostril.

"Idiot!... " Robert cursed.

"We'll kick your kidneys in if you don't start behaving yourself better," Alf snarled, and Peter involuntarily shrank back from the two menacing pairs of legs in front of him.

"Go ahead. Hook will do worse to you later." Peter hated to be forced to use someone else as his protection, but both he and the pirates knew this was an effective threat.

"We should do something that doesn't leave marks," Robert smirked, rubbing his still smarting nose.

"Yeah, he's probably still healing on the bottom there, but his mouth looks alright," Alf laughed. "Can you suck, girlie? Hmm?"

Peter had never been forced to do this, but could guess what they meant easily enough. He felt his limbs go stiff, and the blood begin to pound in his ears. His face grew so dark that the pirates suddenly felt less than eager to go through with the punishment.

Alf looked at Robert uneasily. "So you're the one who's going to do this, right? Because you're the ‘offended party,' as they say."

Robert laughed weakly, staring at Peter's mouth. "Not if you want to... "

Alf shook his head. Peter was frightened, they could both see. But his violently desperate defensive stance was intimidating in itself. He was taking short, aggressive breaths, his teeth and hands clenched, and the pirates could not be sure if it was a trick of their eyes, but even the hair on his head appeared to almost bristle.

"The Cap'n must make him do it somehow. What else is he keeping him in the cabin for?" Robert muttered to Alf, keeping his gaze fixed on the boy. "How does he tame the little brat?"

"Probably starts by putting his hook up the other end," Alf laughed.

"I don't know... it's a nasty set of his teeth he must have," Robert sighed. "I don't think I'd trust him even with a finger. And I don't want to do be doing this if we can't beat him senseless for pulling mischief, you know?"

"Yeah, it's annoying. He must whore himself pretty terribly for how much the Cap'n fusses over him," Alf said, and turned to Peter. "You know he's been making one of us go to shore every day to get you your damn fresh berries?"

Hook had indeed decided to accommodate Peter and spoon-fed him berry puree with every-- mostly liquid-- meal.

"An out-and-out princess, you are," Robert smiled. "I'd love to see what you do to earn it. Does Hook stuff you both ways at the same time when he's feedin' ya?"

Peter tried to block out the sickening images the pirates were continuing to conjure up. He was feeling nauseous all over again, and yet very grateful that all Hook ever did lately was kiss his neck and shoulders. When would the man come to take him back to the cabin? Peter was no longer listening to the pirates, putting himself at risk by being less alert, but calming himself in the process-- fantasizing about the captain threatening to slit Alf's throat with his metal prosthesis, and picking Robert up and flinging him across the deck with it. They would shut up at last then.

Alf suddenly wiped his finger across Peter's nose. "What the hell is this?" He rubbed the fairy dust between his thumb and fingers, glaring at the boy with his one eye.

"Look, there's more." Robert crouched down again, examining Peter' shirt. "Looks like fairy gunk to me. You entertaining visitors here, sweetie?" Peter averted his eyes.

"If we catch you with your fairy friends, they'll all be played with. Perfect size, too, to shove up your... " Robert dodged Peter's fist this time, while Alf fell into raucous laughter, and gave Peter a light smack on the rear.

"We'll find a way to amuse ourselves with you sooner or later." Robert concluded the torrent of verbal abuse, and both left to go about their morning duties. Peter's spine slowly relaxed. At least the fairy had not been present to witness this humiliation.

He resumed reading, finding it hard to concentrate on the boring text after so much agitation. He had finished with less than half a page before he heard something heavy drop into the water, and the rattling of a heavy chain. He guessed it was the anchor being lowered. Peter noticed a large rock outcropping had come into view on shore, and suddenly recognized the surroundings. He had rarely explored this part of Neverland, and then only superficially, seeing it from afar while flying somewhere else. At top speed, he could be home before evening even began. Peter sighed and buried his face into the bent arms on his knees.

"How do you like my other treasure hold?" Hook's voice suddenly sounded above Peter. The boy looked up with slight apprehension, surprised that he had not heard the captain walk the creaky stairs to the upper deck. "You didn't know about this far one, but it's grander. I used it before I even met you on this cursed island."

Hook sat down on the deck next to Peter and put his arm around him. "Would you like to come with me when I visit it? I thought you'd appreciate a little foray off the ship."

Peter nodded. The monotony had become almost physically painful, and any change of scenery was welcome at this point. And, Peter thought with a smile, travel always increased opportunities for escape. In spite of himself, he began to imagine how he would be home before dark that day-- how everything would return to normal, somehow.

"Why aren't you keeping your wound uncovered, as I told you?" Hook's harsh voice made Peter start. He hurriedly picked up his shirt again and felt the direct warmth of the sun off-set the metallic chill from the hook pressing into his neck with the blunt end, as Hook continued to take in the scenery with the boy at his side.


	6. This Way to Paradise

Hook had taken dishearteningly many precautions to prevent any chance of escape for Peter during the excursion. Only Smee had been left to man the ship, the rest piling themselves into two longboats. On the way to shore, Peter’s wrist had been manacled to Alf's, who was charged with restraining the chained boy even further in his thick, workman arms. And now, trudging through a trail overgrown with thick vegetation, following all the other crewmembers, Alf was carrying Peter as little more than cargo or a rifle, branches of trees occasionally snapping into his face and legs. Not to suggest that Peter did not enjoy the softer caresses of leaves, and the residual dew they left on his skin-- the forest, not the sea, was his element, after all, and he savored this return, even if it was to be enjoyed only from the confines of a filthy pirate's grip.

Their destination, however, was far less pleasant. Hook, upon coming to Neverland, had stationed his first treasure hold in a dank cave so deep that only torches provided any illumination. The humidity was high, despite the chill of the unmoving air, and water constantly dripped down every wall and salty stalactite. The torch in each pirate's hand cast strange shadows on the stone, and the faint squeak of bats far away was rather unnerving. Hook pressed on, oblivious to his surroundings, eager to reach the trove as soon as possible. When they finally entered the cavern, Peter heard the pirates' breath hitch in their throats. The grotto was very large, and the floor was strewn so thick with treasure that it was difficult to walk. Most of the articles were gold and silver, and scattered out of wooden chests that probably at some point served as their containers. Peter's eyes happened on an open chest overflowing with silk dresses, the white ruffles of their hems hanging over the edge vaguely recalling Wendy's nightgown to him. There was a gratingly familiar tingle starting in his nose, and the boy had to look away to avoid embarrassing himself needlessly.

"We used to have it grouped by raid, remember, mates?" Robert smirked.

Cecco leered, the sharp shadows on his face making it all the more hideous. "Yeah, until we all got drunk in here one night."

Having reached the approximate center of the cavern, Hook turned to his crewmen. "We're planning to leave this island in a few days, so take as many items as we can carry. I don't think any of us have the patience to go back for seconds, and we can leave the rest here with no worries. No one seems to know of this island, as we haven't had visitors in all our time here."

Peter looked a bit puzzled, but opted to say nothing.

"Am I going to be a nurse and sit with the kid all day?" Alf asked with obvious irritation, as the rest of the crew scattered out, looking for the most compact valuables.

"Chain him up somewhere, for the time being," Hook said, unlocking the manacle around Alf’s wrist while the pirate held Peter tightly to prevent his escape. Peter was chained to a stalactite near one side of the cavern and finally left to himself. Everyone was at a distance and the light from their torches was fairly dim. The pain in his side made it difficult to stand, so Peter sat down on the hard, damp floor, eyeing the treasures that ignited the men’s passions to such frenzy. Even Hook, with his fairly disinterested attitude towards the most pleasurable of things on the ship, was uncharacteristically giddy. The gold glinted beautifully, Peter admitted, but it was hardly as pleasing as the stillness of the mermaid lagoon in the grayness of early dawn, nor as visually exciting as the profusion of lights at a fairy orgy. Pirates were odd, even for human beings, Peter decided, smiling wistfully when he remembered the young fairy's assessment of his species. Nostalgia was hitting him hard as the earlier prospects of escape all but disappeared.

"Hey, mates, I found our store of rum!" Starkey called out, and Peter saw the torches begin to congregate around the source of the voice.

The boredom of the ship that Peter sought to escape came back full force as he continued to sit among the treasures. It was not a boredom of place but of confinement itself, Peter acknowledged reluctantly, and from this he saw no sure way of escape. It was then his eyes settled on the faint glint of something peculiar-- metal, but not gold, surprisingly unassuming amongst the gaudy richness of the other items. It was within his reach, and he pulled at it cautiously. To his utter delight, he saw a beautiful long blade begin emerging from inside the pile. He slid it out slowly, lest he should bring attention to himself from the others, and could hardly contain his happiness to feel a sword so sharp and relatively unrusted in his hand. The sensation awakened feelings that had been dormant in him for quite some time-- feelings of prowess, independence, and an uncompromising vision of the world as a simple place of good things to love and evil things to hate. If only he were not chained and the ache in his side were not so strong, he could probably butcher them all on a whim, Peter contemplated with glee. But he promptly hid the sword amongst the other items when he saw one of the torches begin to approach him.

"Care for some rum, lad?" Hook's gravelly voice spoke-- more easily recognizable than his face in the eerie illumination of the torch. "It might take the edge off your pain." Peter shook his head.

"Suit yourself." Hook shrugged and downed another drought from the bottle in his hand. "Are you enjoying yourself here?"

"I was, until you joined me," Peter answered truthfully.

Hook laughed more heartily than was warranted, and Peter could discern an intoxicated twinkle in the man's eye, even with the poor lighting. "We're sailing back out to undeserted islands, did you hear? No more supernatural pixies and immortal boys flying about. I've spent far too long settling my score with you in this godforsaken place, and though I enjoyed the scenery, I'm ready to go back to looting ships."

Peter said nothing. Hook sat down onto the floor near the boy, his back almost completely turned to him, surveying his treasures as he continued speaking, punctuating his sentences with droughts from the bottle. "Nobody would believe an account of what I saw here. And I'm not about to publicize this island to other sailors, so don't worry-- it serves as a nice hoarding place. I could make a pretty polly showing you around as a freak of nature out there, though."

Hook chuckled again. His words were not slurred, but he sounded uncharacteristically blithe and effusive. He was also not as alert as was his custom, Peter noted. The boy took the opportunity to begin sliding the sword back out, still keeping his eye on the captain’s back.

"But I don’t think I’ll exhibit you either. I don’t rightfully know why the hell I’m keeping you in the first place. You’re really a treasure of no use."

"Like any of these others," Peter said coldly, his heart beating rapidly as he ran his fingers over the blade and stared intently at Hook’s back, which shook slightly when the man laughed again.

"You are pathetically ignorant, Pan. These treasures can give me the world. They can buy anything."

"They look like deadweight to me." The shake in Peter’s voice was betraying his agitation, but Hook took no notice.

"When we reach a port with Europeans, or at least savages that understand the use of money, you will see that I’m richer than the king of England." Peter was contemplating a fatal strike, but there were many deterrents, not the least of which was the fear of what would follow. He was, after all, still chained and relatively immobilized, which might conceivably allow the crew to reacquire him, and this time satisfy their desires without being hampered by Hook’s discipline. The thought was wholly unsavory. Besides this, there was something else that troubled Peter-- and the fact that it troubled him alarmed him in its turn. Before his capture, Peter had always spared Hook when he had the opportunity to kill him, avoiding an end to what he saw as a merry game. He would have expected to have no qualms about killing the man now, after suffering so much pain and indignity at his hands, but the sword was still stayed, now by a different emotion. Though Hook had mostly been, and continued to be, uncaring and even cruel, he had consistently been the closest person to Peter lately, and the few instances of caring since his illness began stood out in Peter’s memory stronger than the more numerous, and less pleasant, episodes.

Hook turned to see the boy still holding the sword, silent tears coursing his cheeks at the hopelessness of his situation, even having been equipped with such a powerful weapon. Despite his drunkenness, the man swiftly jumped back, out of the sword’s reach.

"Now, lad, put it down." The captain's voice was measured to mask his agitation.

Peter shook his head, clutching the hilt to his chest possessively, sucking back his tears, and determined not to give up without a fight.

"Put it down, or we leave you here to rot among the treasures," Hook said.

Peter stood up, clumsily, the pain in his side not letting him completely straighten out his body. He was determined not to surrender, telling himself that Hook would not leave him in the cave. Yet it was even less likely that Hook would set him free-- the only other option in this impasse. Imagining being left in pitch darkness, starving in the dank cold, was a ghastly thought.

The other pirates had by now assembled nearby, attracted by the slight commotion. The boy stood awkwardly, tethered by the chain on his wrist, visibly wracked by pain, so that even the hand in which he held the sword shook considerably. Yet there was also determination, and even a smidgen of self-confidence showing through, and these two things were reminiscent of a far more menacing creature than they presumed they had been dealing with. After all, Peter Pan had been one of the greatest terrors of Neverland for the pirates. He had haunted both their nightmares and their waking lives. Even now, none dared approach him beyond where their captain stood.

Peter was grateful that he could see them at least slightly frightened once more.

"I tell you again, put the sword down." Hook took one more step toward Peter.

Peter shook his head, pursing his lips. "Let me go, first."

Hook snorted. "I don't think anyone's approaching your vicinity while you're waving that about."

"I won't hurt them if they just unchain me." Peter said, trying to straighten out completely.

"And how do we profit from this?" Peter offered no reply. "I'm not joking, Pan. We'll leave you here." Peter still did not move, his face numbing into a blank expression that irritated Hook to no end.

"You're really starting to test me, boy," Hook growled. "Now, throw it away before I have to take it away."

Peter was heartened to see that Hook had no real intentions of leaving him, but he was quickly brought back to worrying when Hook unsheathed his own sword.

"I don't want to fight you, Pan. Not when you're pathetic like this, so just drop your weapon." Hook took another step forward, bringing his sword well into the reach of Peter's. The boy felt little confidence that he could win in this particular situation. Hook took several steps forward, and Peter felt panic rising. He was not ready to face the captain on old terms, and was still holding his sword near his own body in a non-combative stance. Hook's sword tapped Peter's gently, and the boy suddenly lashed out, operating on instinct and memory. He himself was surprised to see blood appear from a nick on Hook's cheekbone. The crew murmured. Hook's entire body seemed to swell with rage, and the ensuing events might have turned unpleasant, had Peter not cast his sword far out of his own reach, and crouched down in surrender. Hook sheathed his own weapon, and wiped the streak of blood off his face away with a handkerchief before undoing the lock keeping the chain around the stone, holding the boy roughly by the waist.

"I see we're feeling better today, and back to our insolent old selves," the captain said with mock sweetness. He turned to Alf and Robert. "Take him back to the ship and engrave my name on his shoulder so he remembers his place better."

***

Peter hissed from the pain of the quill tip being inserted into his skin. He was draped over Alf's legs, half stripped, demoralized by the verbal insults the two pirates had spouted at him the entire length of the journey back to the ship in one of the longboats.

"It's an old art from Borneo," Robert said, as he continued to delve deeper into the skin. "And can you guess how I came to learn it?"

"How?" Alf asked.

"I was captured by them Indians when I was with another ship, and they mark up all their captives. 'Tattoo,' they call it in their language."

"This one?" Alf pointed to Robert's arm.

"No, it's the huge ugly one on my ass." Robert laughed, and finally removed the tip. "Hurt like hell thrice over, too. You should be glad, kid, that I don’t do it so rough as they."

"We should 'tattoo' his ass up," Alf said, beginning to pull down the pants. "Make it extra bonny."

"Hold it," Robert said, pushing another one with refilled ink into the boy. "We don’t wanna be doing stuff with him down there. Cap'n's awful concerned about his precious little bottom. Probably reserves it for himself."

"Just a look!" Alf was almost whining. The quill point left the skin.

"No, it'll only make you excited for nothing, mate. Drop it." Robert pulled the pants back up.

"You mean drop the pants." Alf laughed at his own doltish joke, stroking Peter's bottom longingly. The boy said nothing, trying to contain his indignation. "I still think we should mark him up on his ass. Or maybe here," Alf's finger stroked the skin immediately above the waist of the pants.

"Calm down!" Robert laughed, causing the sharp point inside the boy's skin to quiver painfully. "I'll venture ten doubloons for the Cap'n giving the kid up quick once we reach a port with some more decent company."

"But by then I'll be just as busy with them too," Alf protested.

"Ya hear, kid? All this pampering ends right soon. You'll be doing the lowly chores like the rest of us."

"And not letting us get bored on long voyages, eh?" The two men were sniggering incessantly. In and out the point continued to dip, and Peter could only wish whatever they were inscribing on him had fewer letters.

***

The two tattoos stung, and hot inflammation surrounded them, so that Peter could not prop his back against the bed, and even the light contact from his shirt was painful against his skin. His ankles were bound again to the cannonball, as well as a wrist to the bed, both with very short chains.

They had attached him, whether from a bit of malice or simple carelessness, with the cannonball far from the bed-- in such a way that Peter could really only sit in a very uncomfortable position-- his arm wrenched backwards at a painful angle, while his bound ankles reached as far as the length of his legs could let them. He was desperate to see what words or pictures had amused the pirates so much as they imprinted them on his lower back. Fortunately, Hook had left his shaving mirror on the shelf near the bed, which was low enough for Peter to reach even from his uncomfortable position.

The boy angled the mirror on his lower back, his spine twisted around, mouthing the words he was trying to read backwards. It was during these efforts that Smee entered the cabin to hang up a few dried suits in the closet. Eyes round with alarm, Peter slid the small hand-mirror across the polished floor under the bed.

"Hello, Peter," Smee said calmly, taking out a clothes hanger. Having finished hanging it up, he looked back at the boy. "Were you wanting some help with something over there?"

Peter shook his head, relieved to see it was only the old bo'sun who entered. His anxiety had been unwarranted. “When will Hook be back?"

"Surely before midnight. Have you been here all day? And here I thought he took you with him and the others..."

"No, he did." Peter sighed. "And then he decided to send me back with a couple of them."

"Been making the Cap'n cross again?" Smee asked, his words coming out only between grunts as he tried to push the ball and chain closer to the bed. The old man made very little progress until Peter joined in with pulling. Finally, it was close enough for Peter to sit comfortably.

"My existence makes him cross."

Familiar with Peter's ill-humors by now, Smee sensed it was time to change the conversation. "Did you like the Captain’s treasures? Quite impressive, if I do say so myself." Smee could see Peter was sulking, but he continued. "Got most of them off the Spanish Main. Those were good times. Pillaging on the seas, then stopping over at Barbados to celebrate. That was the Captain’s favorite rest stop. The crew rarely changed over, and he always ran a good ship. Schooled, and everything, you know. Real commanding presence."

Peter was not listening. It bothered him that he could not even properly see the tattoo burning his skin. "Smee-- could you read what's written on my back?"

Smee pulled up the shirt, and Peter wished he could see his reaction.

"'Property of Captain Jas. Hook,' it says on your shoulder, lad."

"No, the other. The one down here." Peter pulled the pants down with his free hand just enough to reveal the text. He heard Smee swallow hard.

"Well... uh... it says..." Smee could see the boy's muscles tense up all over, an anxiety that showed through in his attempt at bitter humor.

"What's the matter Smee? Have you forgotten how to read?"

"It’s no horrible thing, Peter, really. Just says 'This way to paradise.'" Smee sounded less assuring than usual.

"I saw where the arrow points," the boy said dejectedly.

"Don't worry yourself over it, son. They all like you-- us pirates are just a crude bunch."

Peter turned to face Smee with a smirk, but his eyes were noticeably glistening with restrained tears. "I know what they like, Smee. And don't include yourself in with them. You’re the only one who cares about whether I live to see tomorrow."

"Now that can’t be true-- the Cap’n loves you and frets over you like no one else. He’ll come back and put things straight, you’ll see."

Peter sighed impatiently. "Smee, he told them to put the 'property' tattoo on me. That's what he thinks of me. I feel so dirty with these markings-- and the worst of it is, they’re all true. I’m his property, I’m his whore, and before long I'll be his garbage..." The weathered old skin of Smee's hand gently covered the boy’s mouth.

"Shh... Calm down. Let's not have this kind of talk-- it only ruins the spirits. You’re probably tired, and these tattoos must have been hurting a while now. Are we hungry, perhaps?"

"No." Peter brought his legs up to his body as close as the chain would allow, his brows furrowed into a surprisingly adult expression of the eyes, and his legs so gangly that his knee joints were noticeably wider than his thighs.

"Don’t be upset about this-- really it ain't worth it." Smee made his way out of the cabin, but lingered just outside the door. "Are you sure I can’t bring you something or other?"

"Not unless you mean the keys to all these manacles," was the curt reply. Smee sighed and left shaking his head.

"Shut the door, please!" The boy shouted petulantly into the hallway, prompting the old pirate to return and perform at least one kindness for the boy. Peter felt a tear roll out down his cheek as soon as the door clicked into place. He rested his forehead on his knees and shut his eyes, trapping the hot tears in, imagining lying on the ruddy soil of the forest floor. The lacquered smell of the wooden furniture was just pungent rot that perpetually hung in Neverland forest on warm days. The metal biting into his wrist and ankles was gold he had stolen from Hook to annoy him. The burning spots on his skin were nothing but nasty insect bites one was bound to get from sleeping outdoors on warm nights.

Even if the fairy were to come back now, she would not find him on deck, he realized in dismay. He longed for her companionship again, as well as for the feel of the hilt of a sword in his hand.

The sword. Why had he not even considered using it on himself, back in the cave? Especially when Hook threatened to leave him alone in the dark? It would have been so easy and quick-- only a deep slice across the throat. Peter felt a shiver course his body. The idea of running the cold metal into the tender moisture of his gullet was more unnerving than he cared to admit. There was, in fact, a chance even now, Peter realized. He retrieved the hand mirror from under the bed, and stared at his reflection in it. A shard from it would probably do the job almost as well as a sword. Yet even before he could raise the mirror to smash it against something, a thought froze his planned actions. Hook would be angry to find his mirror broken. It was a silly thought, at this juncture, but Peter's hand remained on the floor. He already knew that he lacked the boldness and adequate desire to go through with his desperate plan. The shards might not have been sharp enough, after all, the boy thought, scrambling to justify his cowardly decision to himself.

Hook returned late, his spirits lifted to giddy heights by the sight of his treasures. He was surprised to see the contrast in mood between himself and the boy as he entered the dark cabin. Hook put down the sack full of jewels he had carried in and lit all the candles in the chandelier. He pushed the cannonball even closer to the bed with relative ease, and took Peter up in his arms and onto his lap. The boy winced from the pressure on the tender skin of one shoulder, prompting Hook to take off Peter’s shirt to examine his commissioned work.

"Did those dogs clean the quill tips?"

"I hope so," said Peter quietly.

Hook laughed heartily. "For their sakes, right, lad? They'll be scraping barnacles off the hull with their teeth if this red doesn't disappear in a few days… And would you look at that-- Robert spells as he speaks. 'Proprty.' You probably don't know how to spell it either. Surrounded by illiterates, aren't I? And completely outnumbered to boot."

Peter felt great irritation beginning to rise at Hook's rollicking spirits, which swelled to nauseous disgust when he smelled the rum on the captain’s warm breath near his neck. The sharp odors of gunpowder, tobacco and seasalt had all grown tolerable by familiarity, but the captain did not overindulge in drink often. Peter, who had never cared to get used to odors that were predominantly found only amongst the crew, could only cringe. "All mine..." Hook's voice rasped, full of poorly concealed desire, and his lips grazed Peter's shoulder lightly. "Unless you object to it, my self-important little sprite?"

"I can't very well object when it's written on me," Peter muttered, grating his teeth. He felt far deeper shame about the other phrase branded on his body, but Hook had yet to notice it, as it was mostly hidden underneath the waist of the pants. It was with a perverse passion that Peter wanted Hook to see it. The captain would surely punish his crew for effacing his 'property.' He arched his spine, guessing it would bring his lower back into plainer view.

"And what is this?" Hook asked, his tone a little more sober, but to Peter's dismay this was immediately followed up by a blithe chuckle. Peter realized he was truly alone in the world. Never before had he felt so betrayed and disgusted by his own body.

"You'll have to excuse my crew-- sometimes they lack tact." Hook embraced the boy, avoiding touching the tender spots. Peter felt himself calming down despite his lingering resentment. Oddly, everything seemed better when he was in the captain’s arms, held so tightly that he would forget about the chains, and could pretend he enjoyed being pressed into Hook's chest.

The man leaned down and grabbed a bottle of rum out of the bag as well as a pair of golden earrings. He took a swig, then dipped the open ends of both golden hoops between his lips before swallowing the rum down. Quickly, Hook’s hand pulled the hair back from Peter's ear, and tried to clasp an earring into it. Flashing metal still produced a very reflexive, violent response from Peter, especially when its glint appeared in his peripheral vision. The boy jerked out of Hook's grasp as far as the tethers would allow, his eyes full of wild, animalistic fear. Hook hated this unfathomable, inhuman expression that sometimes manifested itself on Peter Pan's face, especially when the boy's trapped body hovered in the air before him like some supernatural apparition. He hoped years of living in the forest could be corrected by living in more civilized conditions.

"Come down, lad," Hook said, even as he pulled Peter back by simply outstretching his arm, the chains all being very short. "You should learn to trust the people who take care of you." The boy's panic was uncannily gratifying, however, and Hook felt a return of some rather cruel desires. The small heart was hammering away like a trapped bird's-- quick, delicate, and pained-- and Hook could feel the pulse without seeking it out. There was an urge to stamp out this franticness into silence, and Hook might have obeyed it had Peter's body not felt so coy and delectable when nestled against his own.

"Calm yourself," Hook’s hot breath puffed into Peter's ear, before the boy flinched from the sensation of his flesh being pierced. The pain was hardly comparable to other things Peter had endured, so he sat still in silent bitterness as Hook repeated the operation with the other ear, feeling some warm blood ooze out from each wound. The cold metal of the hoops came into contact with the boy’s cheeks, pulling down on the sore ears with their weight. Peter hated how it felt to turn his head-- the gold following his motions with a delay. Hook was either oblivious, or did not care to see the boy’s dark mood, and admired Peter for a while before crossing the room and sitting down to his harpsichord.

"It's quite beautiful, boy. You inspire me to be a better man. I've laid off the heavy smoking while you were lying sick in bed, and even now you continue to make me feel more alive than I've felt in ages." Peter only glared at the floor. Hook was playing one of the less complicated pieces, and would look over at the boy from time to time. Peter dared not cry, but he heartily wished his skin weren’t so tender in places, and that he could rip off the metal that collided with his cheeks whenever he moved his head. The earrings gave off the metallic smell that Peter had come to associate with Hook, and their constant proximity to his face was yet another perpetual reminder of his captivity. Hook finished the piece, making Peter feel exposed with his long, hungry survey of the boy's meager frame. He stepped back across the room and began to adorn Peter with all the gold he brought in his bag. Chain upon chain upon chain went around the neck, rings on all fingers, bracelets by the dozen on each arm and ankle, threatening to fall off the emaciated limbs even when Hook adjusted them to the smallest setting. Peter did not complain as gold was hung over his frame pound upon pound. Thirty chains across his chest were really no worse than one around his wrist or ankle, he reflected sullenly.

With one smooth motion, as if suddenly remembering, Hook lay Peter face down across his lap, pulled the boy's pants off, and spread his buttocks apart gently. The boy's entire body shuddered in fearful anticipation, and he felt a deep hatred for Hook for breaking his promise of only several days ago.

"You're trembling like a leaf in the wind, lad." Peter could hear the smile in Hook’s voice. "I only wanted verify whether those dogs had obeyed me. You, in all your pride, would never tell me, would you?" Peter's slight relief did not mitigate his disgust at being excessively adorned and then handled like this. The metal smell all around him was beginning to sicken the boy.

"Who did this?" Hook’s voice was so abrupt Peter felt the jolt from the knees he was draped over. What could it possibly be? Peter was still somewhat sore from the gang rape, although the ache had been fading fast recently-- faster than the scar that still pulsed at most times of the day. On the other hand, Hook had never, in Peter's memory, checked the bruising that must have been inflicted on that long, fateful night.

"Who?" Hook brought Peter back to a sitting position. Was it only the old injuries that Hook had just now discovered for himself? The pirate's face was turning livid. Peter could not contrive a reply. He felt Hook's hand gripping him jealously, soothingly reassuring, but so possessive that it hurt. The idea blurted itself out almost faster than it entered the boy's head.

"Alf and Robert."

"Both?" Peter nodded, anticipating more pointed questions, and cursing himself for having lied, twice now, while having no real skill in the art to keep up the charade. There were no more questions, however. Hook pressed Peter into his chest, stroking him so fervently that it was almost frightening.

"We'll deal with this shortly," he said, vitriol not intended for Peter spilling out in his words. It was enraging that while he denied himself, his lowly, filthy crewmembers dared to violate his precious object of affection.

***

The skin of two backs was uncomfortably exposed in the glow of the lantern on deck. The hues and sizes of the two differed, but both were trembling identically. Alf's already bore the marks of past transgressions, while Robert's was relatively clean-- the shoulder blades protruding out from the gaunt frame more than from Alf's muscle-bound one.

"We swear, Cap'n, we didn't lay a hand on him today!" Alf practically whimpered, vainly trying to extricate his wrists out of the top of the rack in which they were confined.

Robert had been mostly silent, until he saw Hook take the whip. "Please!… You’re going to believe the brat over us?"

"I'd advise you to refrain from questioning my judgment, unless you want a taste of the cat o'nine," Hook said calmly, cracking the whip against the deck and smiling to see it had lost none of its snap after relatively long disuse. Peter started at the sound. Bill had brought him up to witness the punishment, and now the boy stood a little behind the captain. It did feel strangely satisfying to see two of his persecutors being locked up into the rack, but just the crack of the whip made Peter’s stomach sink with dread and disgust.

"It's all in the delivery, lad," Hook sneered, noticing his guest of honor's discomfiture. The first blow fell with expert precision on both backs. It was a flick, hardly visible in its rapidity, so that the two bloody welts almost appeared to spring up on their own. Another lash, and Peter had to look away, his blood running cold on hearing every snap and the subsequent moans.

"Seven lashes will suffice for this time," Hook said with bewildering composure, having administered that number. "However, be it known that no one is to touch the boy-- don't even speak to him-- without my express permission. The next time something of this nature happens, it won't be the single, but the cat o'nine, with succeeding pickling of your wounds in salt water so that they may heal nice and slow."

Alf and Robert, who had both been unlocked by Bill, fell to their knees, blood streaking down from all seven gashes. There was a soft thump, and the captain swiveled around to see Peter Pan passed out on the deck.

The boy enjoyed unconsciousness for only a few moments. Awakening to the unpleasant sensations of having been slapped on the cheek rather roughly, Peter focused his eyes on Smee and Hook's faces looming above him.

"What in damnation is the matter with you?" The captain's tone was colored by less ire and more compunction than he cared to have his crew hear.

"He hasn't eaten all day, Cap'n. I offered in the early evening, but he refused."

"There's no excuse for hunger faints aboard this ship, boy. Smee, make sure he eats three meals a day from this day forward. And if he gives you any trouble, I'll stuff it down his throat myself. I think he's healed enough to take solid foodstuffs."

As Smee trudged away to the lower quarters to fetch something for the boy, Hook raised him back up to his feet by the scruff of his shirt with almost theatrical roughness. Peter saw the rest of the crew staring at him, the recent victims of Hook's wrath full of visible resentment, the rest cautious. None of it worried him, however. It felt far easier to surrender himself completely into the captain's care, having seen that his own initiative did not help him escape before, and was unlikely to help him now. There was a terribly depressing apathy about his future setting in.


	7. Children Adrift

Preparations for the planned voyage ahead took days. There was much work to be done, so that even Peter was recruited to do the less taxing jobs of laundry and dishes. The boy ended up enjoying most of the chores, especially as they were done in Smee's company. The old man never failed to entertain with stories, and even began teaching the boy arithmetic orally. Besides this, Peter's only other duty was to eat what Smee cooked for him, on captain's orders, as Hook had no intentions of setting out to sea with the child still malnourished. Alf had been ordered to construct a bed for Peter from a few spare wooden boards stored in the hull, and this was placed in Hook's cabin where a metal ring in the wall was used to secure Peter's wrist with a chain. Boredom was now rare, and the days flew by with Peter Pan inadvertently regaining some of his previous zest for life despite his captivity.

On the day the hull was to be scraped of barnacles, they careened the ship on its side onto the bank. Peter sat chained to a palm tree by the waist, peeling wild sweet potatoes for pickling, tossing them up into a large barrel set beside him. Smee was frying fish on a makeshift campfire nearby. The crew was hungrier these days to the point of doubling each man's portions, Smee explained to Peter in that soothing voice that made the boy almost believe he was sitting on the sand and doing domestic services voluntarily.

"What in the bloody hell is he doing wielding a knife?" Hook's voice was suddenly heard, directed towards the pair. Peter did not care to look up, his heart, as well as his hands, quickening in their respective tasks.

Smee sprang to his feet. "He's just peeling taters, Cap'n. No harm in it-- he won't hurt anyone. It's a wee, tiny thing."

"A tiny thing that he could easily slip into his clothes for later use," Hook said, both men turning when they heard a loud gasp. Blood was quickly trickling down his hand, and soon past the wrist from a deep gash on his finger. Without warning Hook's mouth wrapped around the injured digit, sucking on it forcefully. Smee tried to get in with a bandanna to clean the rest of the arm, but the captain did not desist. The lips caressed his finger with undue sensuality, Peter realized in dismay. He had just begun entertaining hopes that Hook's lust was on the wane and that the man would eventually release him.

"Be careful with him, Smee. And don't let the brat hurt himself, either," Hook said, tying his own silk handkerchief around the injury. "You too, boy. I don't ever want to see your blood again, you hear?" Peter nodded timidly, trying to comprehend the full meaning of the phrase, especially when it was coming from the captain's mouth. Hook stood up and left for the ship to supervise his men.

"He's afraid I want to kill myself, isn't he?" Peter said, watching Hook in the distance, smiling in satisfaction that at least someone else believed he had control over his destiny.

"I wouldn't be in the know, lad. You must understand something, though-- the Cap'n loves you very much. 'Twould break his heart if you ever did something so foul."

"I'm not desperate." Peter smiled. "Although breaking his heart would only be a reason to go through with it."

"You shouldn't be so heartless, ya know," Smee said rather sharply. "And it never serves to talk about them things so casual-like."

"I wouldn't do it, Smee. Just for you... Wouldn't want to hassle you with disposing of me, and all that," Peter said, grinning.

Smee raised his eyes from his work, and finally resigned himself to a chuckle, shaking his head. "Only the young'uns can be so cheery about kicking the bucket."

***

Scrubbing the deck was one chore Peter did not care for. Smee did not work alongside him, his knees would begin aching shortly after he began, and the job seemed limitless in scope. The wood itself seemed a bit grimy, so that Peter could never be sure when to stop his efforts on a particular area. It was getting later in the day, and the sun was beginning to beat down on his head and back. The water in the bucket was already filthy and he still had more than half of the upper deck ahead of him. He stood up for a moment to relieve the pressure on his knees and stretch, when he saw something familiar nearing the ship. Peter had to stifle a yelp of excitement.

The ball of light flew to the other side of the ship, and Peter felt worry rise that she might be noticed by the crew who were all busy doing something or other elsewhere on the ship. She finally appeared on the top deck.

"Oh, I'm so glad you're back!" Peter said as loudly as he dared. The fairy giggled as she watched the corners of his mouth stray outwards.

"I told you I'd come visit you," she said, coming to rest on some coiled rope.

Never mind that this promise was made nearly two weeks ago, and that the ship had stayed in the area almost purely by chance, Peter thought, smirking.

"I brought you something too--" She unrolled a leaf she had flown with from the shore.

Peter recognized it. Tinker Bell had told him its name many times, but he could never remember. It was good for healing wounds.

"Thank you," he said, surprised that he felt tears coming on, taking the leaf from her outstretched hands.

"My friends were too afraid to come meet you," she said, obviously proud of her own pluck, swinging her legs back and forth as she watched Peter rub and squeeze the oil out of the leaf to smear it on the cut on his stomach. There was another place he would have applied it, had he been alone. While Hook grew calm when the visible effects of rape had mostly healed, the boy still often felt discomfort further inside. Now was not the time to remember such things, he told himself, turning his attentions back to the fairy.

"You must have told them some awful things about me, then." Peter winked.

"I only told them you were a human who speaks our language. And that you were very pretty, even though you're so big." She flew in closer, trying to touch one of his eyes, but he kept pulling back.

"Stop flying into my eyes," he laughed, waving his hand between them, careful to not to really swat her away. The fairy settled for another part of the face. She reached out and touched his lips. Almost on instinct he stuck his tongue out, catching her completely by surprise. She flew back, giggling hysterically, her hand now damp.

"Do it again!" she pleaded, waiting expectantly. Peter obliged. He could vaguely remember playing this game with Tinker Bell, long ago, when he was still very new to Neverland. Only the soft, pink tip showed itself and promptly hid back into his mouth, so that the game soon transformed into the fairy trying to catch his tongue. She darted from side to side before his mouth, the tongue slipping in and out of sight, becoming quite abstracted from its owner, in her mind, and taking on a life of its own.

She finally caught it, and Peter pushed it out to its full length, prompting the fairy to squeal and glow brighter in excitement. He moved his tongue around, delighting in this grotesque play that had had no place in his present condition. Despite the fairy's laughter, he heard a soft creak on the stairs. His tongue receded and he froze. It was either nothing at all, or else somebody who had been standing there, watching them.

"Get out of here," he said, still quietly, but very sternly. "Right now. Go. Go back home."

The fairy was still in high spirits however, and flew about erratically asking to play again. Her glee ended when she alighted on the rope already cast in shadow by a figure that had appeared from the corner. Peter's mouth opened, but Alf's hands already came down harshly on her body. Peter winced and closed his eyes. He reopened them reluctantly, half-expecting to see the pirate's hand covered in gore, but the fairy was still alive in his grip-- her wings beating frantically, constrained by the fingers. Tinker Bell would never have gotten caught so easily, the boy thought in dismay.

"You're a dirty, dirty boy, Peter," Cecco's voice came from the other side. The gravity of the situation was only slowly sinking in, as Peter tried to avoid his most horrible thoughts. "Consorting with those fairies? Don't you know that if you stare at them long enough, you'll be crazy for pleasure?"

"I grew up staring at them," Peter said morosely, his heart beating faster and faster.

"That's right," Cecco smirked. "You must be one lonely little whore lately."

"Yeah." Alf's laugh betrayed his dimness. "The cap'n's not enough for ya, is he?"

Cecco went down to the lower decks and soon all five men were gathered around Peter, taking advantage of the early hour during which Smee was still busy making breakfast for Hook.

"It wasn't very nice of you-- what you did to me and Alf not so long ago," Robert said with mock sweetness.

"Not very nice at all," Starkey said, shaking his head, attempting yet again to be subtly humorous.

"But you know what is nice?" Cecco's hand reached out to tough Peter's chin, but the boy leaned away, glaring at them all. "That nice, long tongue of yours. Let's put it to some nice use, then. But if you don't feel up for it, we can always entertain ourselves with the little one."

Peter could feel himself shaking, to his dismay. He was playing into their hands perfectly so far.

"He's a real swell sucker, I bet, with all the practice he gets," Alf laughed, the fist containing the fairy shaking. Peter was intently watching, trying to suppress visible distress, if only to increase her chances of survival.

"Yeah, but let's not take any chances, mates," Cecco declared, his grin betraying an inspiration. "Let him warm up on his friend there."

Peter whimpered in spite of himself as the fairy was brought down in front of his face. It took only a few threats for him to open his mouth and take her in from feet to waist, Alf moving her in and out of his mouth with rapid motions. Peter felt tears welling up, less at the derisive comments than from catching glimpses the fairy's horrified expression whenever she was pulled out. The fairy dust turned to a wet powder in his mouth, and he was almost choking on it, unable to sneeze or cough without risking damage to his friend. The ordeal finally ended when his audience grew bored.

"So-- who's he going to start on?" Alf asked hesitantly.

"Let's see him push some fingers into himself first," Cecco said, his asymmetrical grin transforming into a veritable sneer.

"Ya hear, Peter? Go on, give us a good show," Robert said. Peter stopped coughing, wiping his eyes and runny nose, and glowered at all five men around him, any courage he had left shriveling fast, especially when he saw the fairy still partially protruding from Alf's fist.

"Let her go-- you're ruining her wings already!" Peter tried to speak calmly, but his voice shook violently.

"We won't be letting her go until we see some ass." Starkey was laughing with a hysteria that was particularly disgusting to the boy.

"Better yet, there'll be no wings to ruin very soon if we don't," Robert said, grinning. "Go on, then."

Peter felt his knees knock into each other. He lowered his pants to his chained ankles, enduring taunting references to paradise with a wooden expression. He took his index finger and inserted it into his mouth to wet it.

"Just look at him!" Cecco exclaimed. "Why, he's an out-and-out expert."

"Of course. What do you think he does when the Cap'n's not around?" Robert said, an awfully yellow mouthful of teeth slowly revealing itself between his lips. "He's a lecherous whore, that's what he is. I don't know how the Cap'n stands him."

"I could stand to keep a lecherous whore." Bill laughed good-naturedly. Peter prayed Smee or Hook would show up, but he could not stall for time any longer. The boy brought his hand back, cursing his existence and wishing this could all be a nightmare that would leave no traces once he woke up.

"No, idiot. We can't see like that!" Alf said and tightened his grip on the fairy. Peter promptly turned around.

"And bend over. In fact, get on all fours," Cecco said, snickering.

"And two fingers, at least!" Starkey shouted, laughing. Peter felt himself going numb from disgust as his knees, then hand, came down onto the floor.

Bill was beginning to glance nervously over to the lower deck where Hook could appear. "Hey, mates, might wanna be careful-- we don't want any signs left on him."

"Two of those skinny fingers of his won't hurt him," Robert said, licking his lips. "And if you count on tattlin' on us later, princess, we'll throw you overboard with that lovely ball and chain for a grave-mate."

Cecco and Alf broke into some shanty about Davy Jones' locker, as Peter slowly wet two fingers in his mouth, determined not to start crying again despite the unmistakable feeling of tears coming on.

"Hey, keep it down, mates," Bill was still glancing over to the other side of the deck nervously.

Starkey did not lower his voice in the least. "Are we going to have a show, or what?"

Peter looked up at the fairy in Alf's hands. Her wings-- what he could see of them-- were already bent completely out of shape, and most of her body was hidden in that massive fist.

"Come on then, on with it, or we pluck her wings off," Cecco said. Peter's head bowed in resignation, thankful for the length of his hair, which now very handily cascaded down the sides of his face to obscured it. His hand traveled back, pressing against his own opening.

"Shove it in, will ya?" Starkey was about to approach him, but Bill grabbed him by the scruff of his shirt.

"We don't want him to show signs, do we, mate? Calm down."

Peter felt his muscles relax somewhat, just enough to push in his two digits. He slid into himself as far as possible quite fast, surprised at how much less it hurt when he performed the action himself. The cheers around him were loud, which immediately wiped out any relief he had felt.

"What a sight, what a sight," Cecco repeated, shaking his head. Starkey was laughing hysterically, and Peter sincerely wished someone would beat the man's mouth to a bloody pulp.

"Now comes the real game, sweetie," Alf said, taking off his belt with one hand, the other, occupied with fairy, swinging erratically. "Come on, girlie, raise up your head and start sucking." Peter felt a knot in his stomach for both of their fates. He was beginning to feel the pixie would not survive despite all his degrading efforts.

"Hey, hey, don't take your fingers out!" Starkey shouted, as Peter began to exit himself.

"Yeah, let's see if you can't reach his fingers, Alf," Cecco snickered, as the large man positioned himself in front of Peter.

Peter felt nausea wash over him at what he was about to do. The fairy was beginning to seem less and less worthy a cause of such humiliation. Alf must have sensed Peter's sentiments, and brought the fairy down in front of Peter's face. Her terrified expression was enough. Peter breathed deeply and parted his lips when, to his utter delight, Hook's familiar footsteps were heard mounting the stairs.

Alf did not have time to button up and opted to pull down his shirt instead. The others pulled Peter up, and just managed to bring him into relative order before the captain appeared on the deck. Peter was almost in tears from the roughness with which his fingers had been yanked out, and Hook frowned at the suspicious gathering. "What exactly is going on here?" The captain's eyes narrowed into slits, scanning his crew, and coming to rest on Peter.

"Nothing," Peter mumbled. Alf had the fairy hidden behind his back, and Peter hoped she had not been crushed in the commotion. "They just caught a fairy." Hook looked incredulous, but Peter said nothing else.

"He's consorting with fairies here, behind your back," Robert quickly offered. "We caught the thing. I'd reckon more come here to have their nasty little orgies."

"Bring them both into my cabin," Hook said tersely, turning on his heel.

***

Peter stared at the boots in front of him, not daring to look up at their owner. He felt even more powerless than usual in this new situation. Hook, despite his boast, had had no way to make him perform any acts of his own volition. Threats were ineffective because Peter had grown fairly sure that the man would not gratuitously mangle him. Here the threat was not physical hurt, however. He felt his body grow numb as various unpleasant scenarios of what he would be doing in a few moments played themselves out in his mind.

Hook stood towering over the kneeling boy, contemplating what course of action to take. He was not certain whether Peter's visible agitation was something savory or cringe-worthy. He had a wicked craving to test the extent to which this new weapon in his arsenal extended his dominion over the boy.

"You like this fairy, I take it?" Peter's eyes wandered up, directing a plaintive gaze at Hook's face but no response. "There's no need to be clever. Just a simple yes or no will suffice perfectly."

"Yes," Peter mumbled, lowering his head so that his eyes dodged back out of Hook's view. "And everything they said was true... so, I'll do whatever you want-- just let her go."

This full submission was disconcertingly sudden, and there was nothing satisfying about it. It did not do to have the boy readily degrade himself this way, if he was to be taught to behave like a proper human being. Hook crouched down, leaning in close to the boy's face, his blue eyes animated with sudden inspiration for what to do with the fairy. "Don't beg, lad, it doesn't become you."

"It's all that's left to me," the boy said, still avoiding eye contact with the captain, but catching a glimpse of the fairy in the lantern-- shaking with trepidation, looking to him for succor he did not feel capable of providing.

"Just let her go!" Peter finally broke down into tears, surmising that his pleas were falling on deaf ears. "I'll pleasure you all you want, just don't make her keep suffering too."

Hook had to shake his head in amazement at this selflessness. Never would he have guessed Peter Pan was capable of such irrationally self-sacrificing attachment to a silly humanoid insect. "Don't get flustered just yet, Pan, I'm a man of my word, as you have unfairly failed to notice, so there'll be no need to be pleasuring anyone any time soon."

The wretched look on Peter's face did not leave. The boy was more wary than grateful. Hook continued, wallowing in his own words, proud to be doing something so magnanimous without asking for reciprocation. "I know you're tired of exclusively pirate company on this ship. You can keep her as a diversion on our long voyage," Hook said, casting one last glance at the trapped creature before handing the lantern over into the astonished boy's hands.

Peter's fingers quickly unfastened the latch, but the fairy did not fly out. He took her into his hands, casting her prison aside. The pixie was still in mild shock, and did not budge, prompting Peter to finally speak to her. Hook had heard nothing like it before-- the boy's words hardly sounded human, and their cadence was rather musical, albeit with a desultory, unresolved tune. This was the true fairy tongue-- eerie, complex, and hypnotic in its rhythm. Hook could not help but feel somewhat enchanted by the image of this ethereal bonding. His captive, still in the rather abject kneeling position, was practically cooing something softly and privately to the miniscule creature in his hands. He was speaking an octave or two higher than his custom, his fingers deftly stroking her fragile, crumpled wings to straighten them out. Tears were rolling down his cheeks, and the fairy's tiny hand would attempt to catch the droplets, as if to stop the original cause of their flow.

So much attention paid to one so undeserving, Hook thought, feeling envy creeping up at the intensity of the union he was witnessing. He was tormented by a sudden urge to do something-- to the boy? With the boy? Something even more intimate than what he had solemnly swore not to do. Yet it was impossible to pinpoint this intangible desire, and Hook settled on the rather depressing notion that it was not in his realm to be able to truly please his detainee.

"Could you bring me closer to window, please?" Peter's voice snapped Hook out of his meditation. This was doable. He could only offer the mundane, apparently. Hook obligingly moved the restraining ball and chain closer to the porthole, the large window having been nailed shut long ago. Standing on tiptoe, Peter stuck his thin arm through easily, releasing the fairy outside to fly back to her home on land. He took one moment to inhale the fresh breeze and to verify that the tiny window was indeed too small to fit his head through before returning to the floor, and to his usual resigned melancholy.

"You speak fairy, then?" Hook finally asked.

"Yes," Peter said quietly. "It's the language I still dream in. I'm sorry-- I tried to be quiet. I know how you hate them and anything to do with them."

Hook was amused when he could suddenly discern the slightest hint of the fairy lilt creeping in on Peter's words, something that must have been ever-present, but that he had not cared enough to notice before. "No, on the contrary, I rather enjoyed your fey banter. And I'm much intrigued-- they have, at the very least, raised a singularly wonderful boy."

Peter continued staring at the floor, slightly irritating Hook. "What's the matter, lad? I gave her to you in the hopes of seeing you finally smile again. You shouldn't have let her go if you didn't want to be left forlorn."

"I let her go," Peter said with a rather deliberate air, "Because I have no right to keep her here for my own amusement, no matter how lonely I feel. Fairies don't do well in captivity."

"Oh?" Hook said with mock curiosity for lack of a better retort, scrambling to decide whether he was more angered or shamed by the boy's unsubtle insinuation.

"They waste away and die before you expect it."

"They damn well do," Hook muttered under his breath.

"What?" Peter asked rather sharply and suspiciously, but received no answer.

"Don't think you can teach me morality with your childish simplifications, boy. Not all of us can afford to let loved things go so easily-- especially when we know our days are numbered."

Peter finally looked up and met Hook's gaze, his expression showing the smallest hint of a smile of pity. "Your days are as numbered as mine, you know."

"What are talking about? Don't you remember how long I've been here? You haven't changed a smidgen since I first saw you, you ungodly immortal."

"Neither have you," Peter said, his mouth almost turning into a light smirk. "It's you who doesn't remember how long you've been here."

Hook's hand tensed into a fist. "I have lost track some time ago, when I would forget to mark dates and my calendar kept getting thrown off. But I would guess it's been six or seven years that I was chasing you around like a miserable fool."

Peter was definitely smiling now, albeit wistfully. The captain hated this expression-- how dare Peter know something more about Hook's own condition, and put on this smile full of pity?

"You've been here hundreds of years, Hook."

The words were somehow dreaded beforehand. The captain grabbed Peter up from the floor by his shirt.

"Don't toy with me, Pan. I know your vicious sense of humor."

Peter shook his head slowly, his face melancholic, and Hook's hand released his clothing. The idea was paralyzing-- exciting and terrifying him with its implications. The man stood in silence for some time.

"We are both orphaned children then?" he said, his voice trembling. "Adrift, not abiding by the laws of time, and condemned to live apart from the world, immersed in our merry little game?"

"I guess so." Peter sighed and looked toward the horizon through the window.

"Well, it all ends very soon. We're setting off tomorrow morning. Have... have things changed much in all that time?" Hook asked, curiosity getting the best of him.

"Some." The boy was often unhelpful like this, especially when he was petulant about some trifle.

"In any event, nothing is worse than remaining near this godforsaken island for eternity." Hook's heart quaked, fearing the unknown, but he dared not show signs of it to the boy still staring listlessly out the window.

***

That evening was the first time Hook deigned to have Peter dine with him at the table. Smee had given the boy only a quick drill on using the utensils properly, but Hook did not appear to be in a reproachful mood in any case. He ate wordlessly, stealing a glance at the boy now and then, but only to check the progress of the disappearance of food on his plate. It was an awkward silence.

Hook finished off his dinner, and sat back in his chair, watching Peter at his side as the latter's thin arms moved back and forth ineptly in his attempts to use a knife and fork. Elbows bent, and emaciated arms at awkward angles, the boy looked a perfectly grotesque creature composed of all joints. He finished everything off as quickly as possible, eager to leave the table, but Hook remained seated, lost in contemplation, and Peter did not feel up to saying anything, unwilling to risk a cascade into full-fledged conversation. He swung his legs back and forth, hoping the sound of the chain would remind Hook that it was time to detach him from the table leg. The man remained oblivious, however.

"I haven't read today," Peter finally offered, hating the inactivity he had to endure so often on the ship.

"Be my guest, then," Hook said, getting up and retrieving one of the voyage logs from a shelf. The volume was not so thick as it was long and wide, and it seemed even larger in Peter's hands. The boy leafed through to the last passage he read, careful not to tear the desiccated yellow paper. Finding his place, his eyes began moving slowly across the page, mouth tensing with effort.

"Read aloud, Pan. I'd like to hear your progress."

Peter glanced up out of the book somewhat nervously, coughing lightly before beginning.

"From hence putting off to the West Indies, we were not many days at sea but there began among our people such mor... mortality as in a few days there were dead above twenty men. And until some--" His voice was perfectly melodious, despite his rather labored rate at pronouncing the words. Hook had to smile at the brows furrowing in such concentration.

"-- seven or eight days after our coming from Santiago, there had not died any one man of sickness in all the fleet. The sickness showed not his infection, wherewith so many were stricken, until we were departed thence..." Watching that smooth chin clap back and forth, and the lips grinding torturously one against the other between the more difficult words, Hook was beginning to be overwhelmed with desire. His mind strayed into wonderful reverie, lulled by the monotony of the text and the boy's rather unvaried tone. Only the full stops were accompanied by a sighing breath before plunging back into the reading.

"What is ahgwess?" Peter's voice was suddenly animated, back to normal speech. Hook was forced to abandon his fantasies.

"Ahgwess?" The man repeated, contemplating how much he wanted to engulf that mouth with his own, and stop its chatter for the night.

"It says 'and then seized our people with continual ahgwess.'" Peter looked at him questioningly.

"Agues!" Hook laughed. "Those are chills and sweats you get when you're very ill."

Peter was ready to return to the book, but Hook continued. "Is this what I've made you read all this while? Frankly, I'm amazed you're trying to delve into this drone of a text."

"Well, I do want to understand what you wrote," Peter said and quickly looked down, suddenly embarrassed. Hook's breath hitched.

"I must say that's rather complimentary, on your part. Never thought Peter Pan would be voluntarily interested in anything to do with me." Hook grinned, his white teeth bright against the candlelight. Peter looked like he was trying to suppress a smile.

"Not completely voluntarily. But I do respect you-- 'as you have unfairly failed to notice.'" The concealed smile finally revealed itself. Then and there-- Hook pleaded in agony from no one in particular-- just then and there he wanted to ravish the boy, and forever hold his peace. Hook's hand clenched around the fork.

"I'm truly flattered. But even I'm bored to death of that account of pestilence and losing men. Go on to something else."

Peter had a slightly confused look, batting his eyelashes with irresistible innocence. The metal fork's handle was beginning to bend under the pressure of Hook's grip. The man's voice did not quaver, however. "Anything else. Pictures, perhaps. Look through the pages-- I'm sure I had some pasted in now and then."

Peter came across several small maps, Hook explaining details for each one that were completely lost on the boy, except for the fact that they were often bought cheap in a place called Jamaica. Suddenly, a portrait of a young girl revealed itself on one of the last pages.

"Who is she?" Peter asked with genuine curiosity.

Hook sat silent for a long time, contemplating the slight likeness of the doll-eyed, delicate girl to the boy who was now holding her picture up for Hook's scrutiny.

"She was a girl from Carolina," Hook said wistfully, leaning into his chair's back and lighting the two cigars and in his holder. "There was a rather reputable brothel in Charles Town, and I dropped by every time I happened to be in the neighborhood. The whores there were clean for the most part, but what I prized most was that they were willing to have their virgin daughters used for a price. Now sometimes I'd show up and there were none over ten years old that hadn't been used, but I always forked up good money to have a first go. First go is usually most delicious, even if the poor girls don't know what to do. First go with you, for example, was the tightest, most agonizingly pleasurable fit I'd ever had." Hook looked over at Peter, whose agitation at the memory, and moreover the man's mentioning of it now, was plain on his face.

"This girl was the child of one of my favorite prostitutes, and I took her when she was all of eleven years old. She was frightened but obedient, and after some cursory instruction, pleased me like no one else, before or since. I'd paid her mother good money, but doubled the expense on the morning after, buying her off and sending her to school in a nunnery."

"What's a nunnery?" Peter asked apprehensively, not at all enjoying this story, fixing his gaze on Hook's embroidered cuffs, or the lace shirt visible under the heavy coat. Anything but the captain's penetrating eyes.

"A place where she'd be safe from other men," Hook took another drag from his cigar. "I came to visit her every few years, to spend a week or two together. Yet she always seemed prettiest that first night-- that earnest expression, and the fear of having been betrayed by her own mother. So I'm right glad I took her to the center of town on the first day of my ownership, and had her drawn by some sorry old street-painter. He didn't do justice to her beauty, but did manage to capture her innocence-- Most amusing of all is the fact that I might well have been her father." Hook laughed heartily, Peter not entirely sure he understood the humor.

He scrutinized the picture, tracing the girl's fine features with his fingers. Her expression was melancholy but not without hope. She was prettier than Wendy, Peter decided in wonder, and felt some strange excitement he had not experienced for a long time suddenly return.

"Where is she now?" he finally asked, in spite of himself, hesitant to goad Hook to continue his story.

Hook puffed out a cloud of smoke that lingered above the mostly empty plates on the table. "Dead and buried, my friend, if it has indeed been as long as you say it has. It's one of the things that pain me deeply."

"I know the feeling well," Peter said, sighing. Hook raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. It was rather pretentious of the boy, never having felt love, to make such claims.

"Thank you, by the way." Peter's voice was quiet and suddenly shy. "I never did thank you earlier for not-- using the fairy against me." The boy nervously looked away towards the door, the cords of his neck coming into stark contrast in the candlelight, and Hook felt heated desire again, cursing himself for devising this unending self-torture with his oath. He had to start gently convincing the boy to come around, or else keep away from him. James Hook, devoid of religiosity or any austere sense of morality, still sought to adhere to his own promises with the unquestioning fervency of a child.


	8. Dogged Hunger

Late afternoon light was reflected on the ripples of the sea, forcing Peter to squint as he stared out at the island. Hook's spirits had been most foul since the day they neared what they all thought was an unknown shore. The man was surprised-- they had not been in open sea two days before sighting land again. They approached it, unsure if it was an island or a jut from some continent.

Peter looked down at his wrist, still marked with now yellowish bruises from Hook's grip. The captain had yanked Peter out of bed very early that morning, and dragged him to the deck, not even taking precautions against escape besides his vise-like clutch on the boy. Peter confirmed his worst suspicions-- the island before them was indeed Neverland. Though they had sailed without veering away from their initial direction, some bewitchment or sabotage had pointed the bow back towards the island and caused them to approach it from another side. Hook debated his next course of action on his feet, pacing around the cabin furiously while Peter huddled on his makeshift bed, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. His wrist throbbed then-- swollen and feeling snug in the restraint with which Hook re-chained him. It was the first physical violence he had suffered from the captain in weeks, and summoned back old unpleasant memories.

They sailed out in a second attempt, glum in their outlook this time. Hook was out on deck most of the day, and Peter was left alone, having to complain discreetly but rather persistently to even be fed in the evenings. It was better not to attract too much attention from the captain in those days, in any case, and Peter only worried that the man's late night drinking might result in capricious violence. He went to sleep as early as possible to avoid confrontations.

The daytime boredom was excruciating at first, but Peter quickly found himself a hobby. He took every opportunity to peruse the picture of the girl in Hook's log, sometimes for hours a day in his stifling seclusion. It was a secret pleasure, which grew as he experienced it more often, until the pleasant tightening in the pit of his stomach would begin as soon as he flipped to the page. Looking at that weathered portrait flooded his body with more warmth than he had felt even looking in on Wendy at the window. He took every chance he got, pretending to be reading on another page if the captain suddenly walked in, instinctively wishing to keep everything a secret. He dreamed up the adventures they would have, and for a few moments his mind would let him forget that everything, even Neverland itself, was forever marred for him.

Peter sensed they would inadvertently return to their home, and knew he had been proved right when Hook stormed into the cabin, hurling an empty gin bottle against the bookcase. He cast angry glances at Peter, who now appeared to be the only inhabitant of Neverland who could leave the island at will. Thankfully, Hook had said nothing, and only made Peter clean the explosion of glass shards on the floor.

Now that they were anchored near Neverland again, Peter idly estimated how long it would take him to reach the tree house from this point to pass the time. Based on the pirates' predictions of his fate in the outside world, as well as his own limited experience in it, he was happy their plans had somehow gone awry. He leaned over the edge, breathing in the fresh sea air, staring down in search of mermaids. He did not notice a dark shape in the water until it was close enough to draw attention with its sheer size. It drifted ponderously towards the ship, with purpose but in no hurry.

"Hook!" Peter shouted just loud enough to be heard on the upper deck, where the captain stood surrounded by his crew, discussing their next plan of action. The shape surfaced, murky green scales breaking the water. Hook's gaze followed the boy's thin index finger slowly. He raced down to the lower deck, and cautiously peered over. The crew was only a step behind him.

"No ticking, Cap'n!" Alf remarked. "You think I haven't noticed, you idiot?" Hook hissed, and though his eyes did not turn away from the source of the commotion, Alf backed away-- unwilling to test whether the captain had completely outgrown his old habit of gutting his men for minor offenses. Peter saw cold sweat bead on the man's paling face. His whole frame shook. "Maybe it's some other one, Cap'n," Cecco offered, but Hook recognized the dogged hunger in those yellow reptilian eyes all too well. Everyone knew there was only one crocodile in Neverland-- decreed, as if by some law, that she would never find a mate nor die. Peter felt the man's callused hand rummage for a hold and settle on his still-sore wrist with a painful grasp. At the same time, he felt Starkey groping his bottom as they all stood close, watching the beast lie silent and ravenous near the ships' bow. Peter moved in towards Hook, amazed at what havoc the animal could wreak on the man's countenance.  
***  
Tremors coursed Hook's face at every hint of a splash outside. He was biting at his index finger in a most undignified manner, evidently too distracted to even drink the lone glass of gin that would shake in his hand if he did take it off the table. Occasionally, the pirate rushed to the window, searching for the creature he hoped not to espy in the black waters below, and would return, hardly pacified by its absence. Peter watched him with a morbid fascination. It was unsettling that the man he had come to depend on and grudgingly respect could be so unsure of himself. Most disconcerting of all, Peter was beginning to feel a definite growing sense of irritation at the fact that Hook was not focusing on him in this time of leisure. The captain finally glanced over at the boy, who was sitting uncomfortably on the floor of the cabin. "Sorry, Pan," he said. "It's about time you got some sleep." Hook undid the locks, and held Peter's torso just tightly enough that the boy knew attempts at escape were unlikely to be successful. He chained Peter's wrist to the metal ring inserted into the wall, and tucked the boy in without a word, eyes staring off, lost in disorganized thought. He sat down for a moment on the edge of the bed, his face turned sharply towards the window beyond which lay the threatening waters, a slight nervous tic sometimes visible at the corner of his lips.

Perhaps Peter was simply not tired. He suddenly had an urge to do something very peculiar, and followed his instinct without much premeditation. Sitting up, he wrapped his unchained arm around Hook's neck. Hook's pulse shot up sky high. The bony limb on his shoulder brought the boy's body into tempting proximity, feeling not heavy, but ponderously significant. Hook dared not turn his head and face Peter, and was rewarded with something that felt ever so delicate, moist, and coy on his cheek. It was very late, and the reappearance of stubble must have made his skin rough, Hook reckoned, desperate to grab on to a mundane thought as the rest of his mind reeled with confused excitement. Yet those sweet, childish lips lingered on the unpleasant surface longer than he expected, suddenly opening up, a blossoming of velvety rose petals, with just the tiniest hint of dampness left to simmer after finally breaking contact. A childishly small mark of affection, to be sure, but Hook felt himself go slightly giddy at this surprising turn of events.

Peter pulled back, and Hook turned, staring at him wide-eyed. The boy felt his heart beginning to beat faster. What he did seemed innocuous enough, but why was Hook's expression so hungry?

"--What?" Hook finally asked suspiciously, almost shyly. Peter's eyes fluttered two rapid blinks, and Hook felt pent up desire flooding his guts.

"I just want--" Peter hesitated, trying to identify his motives. "I don't-- I don't like it when you worry so much." Hook tucked Peter back under the covers, his hands trembling lightly. He leaned in over the boy and planted a gentle kiss at the base of the neck. Suddenly all reserve flew out the window, and there was no return. Neck, shoulders, cheeks, ears, forehead, and the little bit of chest that lay exposed above the edge of the bedcover were mercilessly attacked by Hook's lips and tongue. He was waiting for a hand to try pushing him away or to slap him across the face, but there was no resistance from the boy. Curiosity won over lust, and Hook backed away temporarily. Peter lay on the bed, looking not nearly as uneasy as Hook expected.

"You-- like this?" Hook asked hesitantly.

Peter's mouth wrapped itself into an asymmetrical, wistful smirk. "Not really. But as long as it doesn't hurt." Peter gave a small sigh and smiled, sinking further into the soft mattress as he relaxed any remaining tension in his body. "I know you like it," he added. Hook dove back into Peter with renewed fervor, shaking with the unexpectedness of this release. What he was most eager to taste were the boy's lips, but he refrained after noticing Peter shift uncomfortably whenever the kisses neared his mouth.

Peter lay inert for the most part. The memories of all the rapes occasionally intruded themselves on his mind, and his heart would begin to beat faster whenever Hook planted a kiss particularly roughly or began to suction the skin in. But there was a strong contentment to alleviate his worries. Peter had found just how powerful a sway on Hook's emotions he had. The crocodile was by now completely forgotten, and Peter Pan was once again the most admired and adored inhabitant of Neverland.

"Kiss me again," Hook's low voice murmured, while he busied himself with Peter's collarbone.

"But-- I don't have a kiss here." The boy's coy voice prompted Hook to stop.

"What do you mean? Just like this--" Hook leaned, his mustache brushing against the tender skin of the boy's cheek, mimicking the chastity and earnestness of how Peter had kissed him moments ago. "Just as you did."

"That's called a thimble," Peter declared with a condescending confidence and giggled. Hook smiled indulgently.

"Right, then. I'm sorry, I meant thimble."

Peter smiled and obliged, feeling important and powerful for freely dispensing out something Hook apparently valued so highly. After several minutes, Hook stopped and sat back, asking if Peter was tired of the activity. Feeling unusually magnanimous and bold, Peter shook his head. Judging affairs childishly, he assumed that Hook's oath not having been broken several weeks necessarily set it in stone and precluded any future violent advances. There was something almost amusing about the captain's desperation, now that Peter did not expect to be painfully ravaged.

It was agonizing, in a way. Hook took care to avoid bothering the child with the arousal that was tormenting him, and remained kneeling on the floor, his hips grinding into the ruthlessly hard, wooden side of the bed. He felt his will to keep his promise corroding away with every moment continued in this teasing play. Desire finally swelled to an uncontrollable level, and Hook began to pull back the cover, already looking forward to the treasure awaiting him underneath with anticipatory ecstasy. Suddenly a small hand landed on his own. He looked at Peter's face, and saw no anxiety, but an astoundingly earnest expression.

"I don't want that." It was said so matter-of-factly that Hook was dumbfounded into inaction. His body shuddered, and he had the urge to weep as his hips ground into the merciless wooden side of the bed once again. He knew he should pull himself back up to his feet, but Peter's smooth skin perpetually screamed out to be touched one more time. He finally stood up, conscience warring with body, and proceeded across the room with an awkward gait, shutting the door behind him emphatically as he exited, off to release himself from the agony somewhere out of the child's view.

Peter sat up in his bed, vaguely worried. Had he enjoyed too much fun at the captain's expense? A small fear began rising that Hook would return with a somewhat different, more licentious disposition. All the frightening nights quickly flooded to the forefront of Peter's memory in graphic detail, and he suddenly wished he had never tempted his keeper so recklessly. The boy pulled the blanket up to his chin and gathered his legs up closer to his body, feeling very small and vulnerable.

Hook strode back into the cabin in a happier mood, taking off his belt and the metal appendage, before practically leaping in next to Peter. The boards of the small bed creaked plaintively under the added weight, and Peter was squeezed against the cabin wall. Hook finally saw fear in Peter's eyes and chuckled gruffly. The strong arms swaddled Peter in the blanket many times over, keeping only the arms out of the bundle. Rolled up like this, Peter was lifted onto Hook's body. Peter's heart was racing, but the buffering of the blanket between their bodies was somewhat reassuring. The pirate's lips again began tracing out trails across Peter's shoulders and neck, but much gentler this time. Calmer after his release, Hook reveled in his ability to soberly enjoy Peter's beauty and semi-willing company this evening. As Peter sensed the danger of rape dissolve away, he also relaxed into Hook's kisses. The game was growing monotonous, but Peter was not one to goad Hook on to any changes in the repertoire. His unchained hand eventually found a diversion-- intertwining its fingers in Hook's luscious locks outspread chaotically over the sheets. Hook suddenly grabbed the hand and engulfed most of the fingers in his mouth.

"Beautiful, slender fingers you have," Hook cooed once his mouth was empty again. Peter beamed smugly. The child was prone to vanity, Hook noted gleefully, and began to declare bits of banal praise for Peter whenever his mouth was not otherwise occupied.

"My most beautiful-- my loveliest-- my most wonderful--" At each punctuating kiss, Hook looked at Peter's face, eager to make certain the boy's ego was being gratified. "The most wonderful boy--"

"In Neverland?" Asked Peter, naively hopeful, unashamedly fishing for compliments.

"In the world," Hook whispered and felt Peter melt into his arms.

Finally Hook stopped and simply let Peter lie on top of him, still wrapped in the blanket and his affectionate embrace. Peter's head lay just under the pirate's chin, his feet ending somewhere near Hook's ankles. His body moved up and down in time to Hook's deep, contented breaths. The captain planted one final kiss on top of the boy's head.

"When I'm afraid, when I'm lonely, when I feel an urge to put a pistol to my head--" Peter felt the vibrations of Hook's voice moving through his own frame. "I'll always think of you like this, boy. As you are now."

Peter smiled, and absorbed the words with great pleasure and a bit of self-importance, but Hook knew he could not possibly appreciate the full extent of their truth. This was no facetious praise now.

"And when I'll think of you like this, I'll always be afraid," Peter answered in retort. Hook looked down brusquely. Peter was smiling sheepishly, his eyes betraying uneasiness at having done something wrong. "Only joking, of course."

So like a child-- to break an atmosphere with paltry quips. Hook suppressed annoyance. He could afford to tolerate any inanities from that lovely mouth that night.

"And why shouldn't you be frightened?" Hook whispered, and squeezed the body on top of him into his own. Peter let out a small laugh, failing to mask his nervousness. An anxious, inexperienced child, for all his countless years inhabiting the island, Hook marveled. It was perfectly lovely. The evening was nothing like any of his original violent fantasies, but Hook found something unexpectedly satisfying about the tenderness of the proceedings and the placid compliance of his former nemesis. Not merely placid. Hook discerned that Peter was positively cheerful, for one reason or another, and this suddenly mattered. Hook himself had plenty of reasons to be happy. He could not have been more explicitly tempted, and yet he had gallantly resisted.

"I love you." The words escaped Hook's mouth like traitors. He had not wanted to voice sentiments that he doubted in himself, and which were sure to be unreciprocated.

"I know," Peter replied with such neutral bluntness that it might have irritated the captain, had the boy not been so tractable all evening.

Thus fell asleep James Hook, in the rather uncomfortable undersize bed-- leather boots still on, hanging out slightly over the edge--striving to think of a suitable way to reward the boy in his arms for his good behavior. Peter, in turn, had little choice but to fall asleep as he was, exultant to see how he single-handedly soothed away Hook's neurosis, and unwilling to acknowledge what an illusion his supposed control must be.

***

Late morning light streamed in through the glass, blinding Peter's eyes just as he opened them. He turned away quickly, remembering why he felt so cramped when he saw Hook's face directly in front of his own. The man was still asleep, snoring lightly, hair in such a mess all over the pillow that Peter felt quite a few strands under his own cheek. Hook must trust him, Peter mused, being this vulnerable in such proximity. Not that Peter could have done the man any serious damage, even had he wanted to, in these particular circumstances. It was less trust than confidence in his helplessness, Peter thought glumly. His hand shot down to Hook's waist, but alas the keys were on the belt that Hook had taken care to leave out of reach. Neither could he surreptitiously entertain himself with the ship's log, with Hook's body between him and the little nightstand on which the book was kept.

Peter slumped back and took the opportunity to peruse the captain's face for lack of anything better to do. The realization hit him quite suddenly. Peter stifled a gasp and attempted to forget the thought, but it was indelible. The shape of the eyes, and even more so the mouth, had incredible resemblance to the girl in the log. He had not seen it before, but it was perhaps the mustache's fault. The man who was so far removed from the way he imagined this girl now unquestionably shared some traits of appearance with her. It was a riddle to him, and a cruel irony. He felt a rush-- not quite the same feeling the picture would trigger-- but he felt as if he could spend hours studying the face he had previously thought was too familiar, especially when the girl was out of reach. Hook shifted, and Peter felt himself being trapped even more snugly against the wall, Hook's body overwhelming with its size and masculinity. Peter ran a finger across the muscular arms and chest. The skin was weathered, the flesh relatively bulky. So unlike any of the children Peter had been accustomed to live with. He wondered if he would have looked anything like this, had he grown up.

Hook woke up to large green eyes doggedly staring at him. Peter's delicate fingers were holding a strand of the long, auburn hair between his immaturely soft nose and a playful smirk.

"A fine mustache, if I ever saw one." Hook could hardly summon the energy to smile. Mornings invariably felt miserable, but he put on a good face for his bedfellow. Peter was by now unwrapped from the blanket, and Hook felt strong desire again, to his dismay, especially when he felt the boy's body touch his own in their close proximity. He got up, aching and cramped up, and retrieved the piss bucket from under the bed. It was now embarrassing-- that he had consciously decided to keep the less pleasant things in the corner of the cabin the boy inhabited.

Peter climbed out as well, as far as the tether would allow, which was barely an inch from the edge. They relieved themselves simultaneously before Hook dressed, and walked out to change the water. Peter smirked when he remembered how he had often taken the liberty to decorate the glass of Hook's windows with yellow streams once he learned where it was in the ship that the captain lodged. So playful and naive were those days.

Hook returned with the breakfast tray Smee usually brought in later, when the captain would finally wake up. He slid the bucket with the clean water under his own bed. "You've been exceedingly good, lad, and I never let such things go unrewarded, even among those scurvy dogs--"

"Preserves!" Peter beamed. The boy had an outrageous sweet tooth, Hook discovered during the first of their abortive voyages. It came in handy when the porridge was days old, and the boy was being picky.

Hook chuckled. "Yes, berry preserves, and a whole lot of them, but it's really not what I had in mind." He set the tray on the table before unlocking the manacle holding Peter fastened to the wall. The boy sat still, calmly waiting to be dragged and re-chained to the table, but Hook merely stood back.

"I thought your flying skills might benefit from a little practice after all this disuse," Hook said, his voice impassive, but his piercing eyes watching for every small change of expression on Peter's face. The boy's breath hitched, and he was pushing off the bed in no time.

"On one condition," Hook added hastily, and was pleased to see the boy obediently settle back down, awaiting his word. "Take off your clothing."

Peter's body instinctively gathered in. "My clothing? But-- why."

It was hardly a question, since both knew the answer well enough.

"So that it won't get in the way," Hook said as amiably as he could muster.

"Then take these things off. They bother me every hour of the day," Peter said, pointing to the giant earrings.

Hook smirked. "Not your way." But when he saw Peter's poised body slump, and dejection write itself so obviously on his face, he quickly added that he was only joking, of course, and took them off with no more ado. The boy's smile returned. He knew there were foreboding elements to this request, but he could hardly deny himself the pleasure of flying now-- even in that close space-- when his very muscles were tingling with anticipation. He removed his clothes hesitantly, all too aware of Hook's greedy eyes-- eyes that could not help but see teasing in the languor of the boy's movements and his pitiable efforts to remain diffident as he stripped.

The man sat down to make his arousal less obvious, and to more comfortably watch the boy's body acquire an entirely new grace in the air. Peter lifted with enviable ease, and began to fly rounds around the relatively small arena afforded him. The light of the sun played wonderfully across his blemish-free skin. Peter quickly grew bolder as he felt familiar with the space. Aerial twists, corkscrews, somersaults, and pikes were executed with amazing precision and due caution not to snag any of the nearby furniture. Best of all, Hook realized, this show was for him. Peter was acutely conscious of his audience, and wished to impress almost by instinct. Every sinew was taut like a bowstring, but with no unsightly strain, Hook mused, his head forced to turn now and then to follow the boy's hectic path.

"Alright, lad, come down," Hook finally said quietly when his arousal began to fade. Peter looked back unenthusiastically, and embarked on a few more rounds, pretending not to have heard.

"Your breakfast will get cold." The voice was getting sterner, so Peter floated down to retrieve his clothing. Hook pulled out a chair for him, and the boy sat down, reluctant, but also unwilling to irritate the captain when he was being unusually generous. Peter's appetite fired up once he had food in his mouth.

The door to the cabin suddenly creaked open, and Smee came in with the laundry. Hook's eyes immediately shot to Peter, who had dropped his spoon in surprise, his body tensing. The boy remained in place, however, and finally looked back at Hook questioningly.

"Shut the door, Smee."

"Yes, Cap'n," the bosun replied, at first attributing the strange abruptness of Hook's command only to the captain's usual ill humor in the morning, but then noticed the boy's lack of confinement. The old man gave a brief smile, but left promptly-- afraid to have angered Hook. Peter continued staring at the door, before finally looking back at the porridge in front of him on the table. His heart pounded. He knew his chance of escape was still slight, but it was one of the finest opportunities he'd ever had in the period of his captivity. He had a far greater opportunity moments ago, but this was gone and would probably never present itself again. It was a shame that Hook had to have been rather considerate on this particular morning, otherwise Peter might have been more willing to risk it and try bolting across the cabin. Instead he resumed his breakfast, following Hook with his eyes as the man walked across the cabin and locked the door with the keys on his belt.

There was an awkward silence, finally broken by a nervous, tittering sort of laugh from Peter.

"All that time..." the boy said, not knowing how to continue without making a painful observation that would risk tears coming to his eyes. The truth was not as sardonic when it was left unsaid.

Hook erupted with chuckling of his own. Peter's laughing was marred by a disappointment and a reawakened longing for freedom that had recently grown quite muted. Hook's was colored by a certain feeling of guilt-- for all his efforts to do something pleasant for Peter, he would never do the simplest thing that would truly make the boy happy. It was, nevertheless, the first time the sound of two such disparate laughs simultaneously bounced off the cabin walls.

The unbid tears finally came to Peter's eyes, though his skittish laughing continued, now interspersed with sobbing. Hook stood aloof, feeling incapable of calming the boy.

Everything he had been happy about, Peter realized, was empty and would have disgusted him before his captivity. There was no honor in being pleasing, especially to someone like Hook. He was utterly friendless here, kept like a trinket, and, worst of all, was apparently beginning to forget how he used to live free, careless, and happy.

"Stop this nonsense," Hook finally said, irritation overpowering his sheepish compunction. "It doesn't befit a boy to cry, especially so absurdly."

"I'm not crying." Peter could barely speak. "It's just funny..." He buried his face into the silk napkin, weeping. Hook did not opt to say a word until the eyes reemerged into view, reddened.

"Go on, finish your food," Hook said, running his hand through Peter's hair. "I think you need a bath. That's it. We'll give you a nice hot bath today." He leaned over and pecked Peter on the cheek, still all wet.

"You'll like it here, I promise you. I've nowhere to go, but being stuck in a little paradise like this isn't so bad, now that I've given it some thought-- It's the kind of life every man wants to retire to, after all. And I'll have you to keep me from becoming bored. We'll teach you, and pamper you to no end." Hook planted a series of kisses on Peter's neck. He watched the boy add an obscenely large dollop of berry preserves into his porridge before continuing to eat, tears silently falling right into his bowl. "You'll be quite spoiled, I realize, but I'll love you for it."

Peter winced as he heard one, then another, click of the metal earrings as they were put back into place.

***

The bath was exquisitely pleasurable, and Peter sat in the tub until the steaming water turned almost cold. The captain always took his bath behind a curtain, but Peter was on display for Hook to see all, though the boy was slowly learning not to feel self-conscious even without any clothes. It was easier to be happy, he had decided earlier that day after his tears stopped-- even if it meant winking at certain circumstances. Certain circumstances like Hook's insistence that Peter sit on his lap, straddling him, to be dried off.

Peter was growing uncomfortable. Hook was not only drying him off, but simultaneously bouncing him up and down in his lap, and it was surely an erection he felt hardening underneath him, practically into his exposed cleft, buffered only by the man's breeches. The friction against Hook's torso had produced an arousal of his own, and Peter's face flushed red to feel himself inadvertently hardening into the stomach of the man he was straddling.

Hook pretended to pay no heed, merely stroking the slender body flirtatiously now that it was mostly dry. He wished he could just unbutton his pants and slip inside Peter's exquisite tightness. He felt more corpse-like than ever before, sure that he had only a couple of days remaining to live, and consequently felt maddening urges to take Peter a few last times. The boy was admittedly the root of most of his problems, but, Hook felt, he could also prove their remedy. He practically effervesced youth and vitality, and these were things Hook desperately craved to partake in. Yet he had to do it properly. He had already carried the game too far, and could see the fright building in the child's eyes as, even muffled by the clothing, the erection desperately sought to plunge up into what was currently stifling it with its weight.

"Will you be sad when I die?" Hook asked, his voice embarrassingly husky after prolonged silence and arousal.

"Why will you die?" Peter asked right back, so matter-of-factly that Hook's morbid sense of humor was tickled. Peter arched away from the towel as it repeatedly swept over his opening, which launched him right into Hook's abdomen. Hook shivered when he felt two hands press themselves against his chest, and though Peter was only trying to prevent falling over forward, it was easy to attribute sensuality to the move. Hook preferred sensuality.

"The crocodile's clock has run down. And with it, my time is up, I suppose. The beast won't rest until it has me, and I can't escape it any more than I can escape this island." The towel dropped to the floor.

"You know what I think?" said Peter, attempting to extricate himself from his provocative position to no avail, as Hook held him put. "I think it just means you shouldn't obey time. You don't have to die, you know, if you're careful."

"And yet she'll get me one day, especially if I can't hear her approach. I'd rather die of old age than go down her gullet in the prime of life. But it will happen, one way or another, you'll see. Even you weren't careful enough." Hook pressed Peter down to further stifle his erection, and let a moan of pleasure and pain escape his lips as Peter's mild fright made him tighten his meager muscles. Hook's arms inadvertently relaxed, and the boy floated out of his reach, across the cabin to retrieve his clothes. Hook watched the tantalizing bottom disappear from sight as the boy quickly pulled his shorts back on.

"Still better than getting old," Peter said quietly, springing onto his bed and staying put, restrained by habit by now, if not with metal chains. He longed to ogle the girl's picture when his body was already so primed and excited, but he dared not open that book in the captain's presence, nor allow himself to stare at the man as a substitute.


	9. Noble Intentions

Peter's quality of life rapidly improved, though in return for this he had to abandon some sense of decency. His mornings were filled with studies, which he enjoyed for the most part. Once he began learning things more quickly, the captain became much happier and more approving, and his disturbing habit of touching Peter's body would subside almost entirely. The boy began to do minor chores in the cabin itself, as well as dishes and laundry for the whole ship when Smee could use the help. Hook rewarded him for progress in his studies generously, letting him loose in the cabin and giving him hot baths with far more frequency than the captain had ever allowed himself. Of the crew Peter usually saw nothing, except when he'd be taken outside for his dose of fresh air and sunlight, but none even approached him when the captain was nearby. It was a mundane existence, but very much a bearable one, and Peter's fears of Hook's violent mood swings slowly diminished.

In the meantime, Hook took great pleasure in Peter's obedience and, though he still dreamed of far greater intimacy, proceeded very slowly in breaking down the boy's inhibitions. Hook's excuse for beginning to put makeup on the boy was that he could not easily discern his features when Peter was up near the ceiling. Peter would sit patiently as Hook accentuated his lips and eyes, each morning's application more garish than the last. His neck usually bore signs of violent goodnight kisses, but there was no one to ridicule him, so Peter stoically bore whatever didn't hurt. Hook, in his turn, knew well enough at which activities his captive drew the line and had no desire to overstep and jeopardize their precarious concord-- not at present, in any case. Not when he could watch the boy bite at his lips in such concentration as he memorized his multiples. Not when the boy could be given lessons on the harpsichord-- his two hands, though a tad too small for some of the chords, still so perfect and intact. Hook would stand over the boy, taking care to be gentle in his reprimands, and though the melodies churned out were simple and clumsily performed, there was something very satisfying for Hook about seeing all ten fingers traversing the keys.

Routine was only unpleasant when it hampered one's own whims. Peter very much preferred routine to Hook's whims, and learned to savor the monotony of life aboard a harbor-bound ship. This was why he protested vehemently when Hook suddenly decided to hold a meal with the crew one evening.

Hook brought Peter out in full cosmetic splendor, chaining him to the table leg where the other crewmembers had gathered. Peter sat stoically, simmering with hatred for being made into a spectacle. Bawdy comments were confined to whispers in Hook's presence, but when Hook left to check on Smee, there was no mercy from them. Everything aroused the greatest mirth in the men. The bruises on Peter's neck and the golden bangles dangling from his ears were suddenly his most salient attributes. None of them dared touch him, however, except for Starkey, who took a prime seat next the boy and assured the others that Peter Pan's backside had filled out nicely since they had last had their fun with him.

Peter prayed silently for Hook's speedy return, hardly guessing that the captain was just around the corner, sadistically curious to see how his boy carried himself among the boors. If there was anything that sent the boy into his arms, it was fear of the crew. Hook returned at last to his seat, amused to find everyone now on good behavior and frantically taking up an entirely different topic of conversation-- all except Starkey, who took to running his hand up and down Peter's thigh under the cover of the table. When Smee brought the food in, Hook stood up to announce that the special occasion was the three-month anniversary since Peter Pan had become a "guest" aboard their ship. This was more pretext than anything else-- Hook had abandoned accurate counting of days long ago, and it hardly mattered, in any case, when a vast, possible eternity stretched out before him. He wanted to show Peter off, plain and simple, though he grieved this was his only possible audience. They would hardly be able to judge the boy's merits, beyond anything subtler than his physique. Even comeliness was not so much valued among them, let alone the subtlety of an interesting personality that Hook had yet to explore fully himself.

Peter heard whispers from the crew, which Hook seemed oblivious to, ranging from doubt that it had only been three months to complaints about what it was that they were still doing in this godforsaken region. Peter quickly occupied himself with the food on his plate, hoping to finish early and be allowed to leave, pretending not to notice the jealous glances the other pirates threw at the profusion of fruit and quality meat on his plate.

"Show us how far along you've gotten with your computation, Pan," Hook suddenly addressed him, taking it into his head to entertain himself. "Thrice two?"

Peter swallowed down everything in his mouth far too quickly for comfort. He looked in dismay at his audience, and then focused back on his plate when he found all eyes on him. "Six."

"And twelve less a five?"

"Seven," Peter sighed. He hated being forced into performing, preferring to show off of his own accord and, in any case, not in front of these men. Most of all, he hated the fact that he had come to trust Hook enough to be surprised by this sort of callous behavior.

"And thrice four?"

Peter scrambled to remember, but his agitation was beginning to cloud his thinking. He quietly tapped his fingertips against his knees under the table to count the problem out, but it seemed that the longer it took, the more quickly he would lose count. He grew pale in spite of himself, frantically blurting out "More than ten," when Hook cleared his throat.

The pirates all burst into laughter. Peter stuffed his mouth full of the first thing that came under his fork, tasting nothing in his embarrassment. He felt the unwelcome sensation of Hook's lips against his cheek.

"My vacuous little beauty." Hook was grinning as he leaned back, but secretly regretted what he said when he saw Peter glaring at him with the same enmity he bestowed on the rest of the assembly.

"It's twelve," the boy finally said, his voice shaking. "And I'm not stupid."

"No worries, Peter," Robert said, elbowing Cecco and winking to the rest. "It ain't like the Cap'n's been keeping ya around for sage advice."

Everyone's eyes returned to the head of the table when they heard an ominous click.

"We're not keeping you for advice around here either, Mullin," Hook said, leveling a pistol at the man's head. "I'd pull it, you know, if I were certain there was something to blow out from that head of yours."

Robert sat motionless and wide-eyed, staring back at Hook until the pistol was put away. Starkey had taken the opportunity to slide his hand across Peter's thigh again. The boy gripped his fork in response, but was only slightly distracted from what seemed like a very volatile situation developing.

"Cap'n, it's too early for this, we haven't even started on the rum yet--" Bill finally offered, and the rest of the crew laughed nervously. Hook smirked and the men relaxed enough to clamor for Smee to bring the rest of the food in. Just as the old boatswain trudged off, Starkey suddenly leapt out of his seat and yelped. Desperate to avoid ridicule, he took great care to hide the four bloody puncture marks on his hand as he clutched it. Peter quietly pulled his pants back to their original position and wiped his fork thoroughly on the napkin.

The rest of dinner was far less eventful. Peter ate in silence, listening to the other men. As more alcohol was passed around, their conversation devolved from theories about what strange effects might have caused them to keep returning to the island, to reminiscing about favorite taverns and whorehouses. Hook sat wordlessly too, rather dismayed by the loutish quality of the men that surrounded him. It was, however, a wonderful opportunity to watch Peter shine like a jewel among them. He knew the boy sensed his gaze, though he did not turn to meet it. Hook hoped he would come around when they were alone in the cabin.

He soon grew impatient with the whole affair. He had no wish to get drunk, and had even less inclination to see the decline of his men into stupor or violence. Peter had been drinking the rum that was poured for him, smiling now at the warmth that was sweeping his body. He smiled at Hook, lightly flushed but hardly ashamed. Seeing the boy's unguarded state, Hook had even fewer reasons to remain at the table. He unchained Peter and began to carry him off, clutched tightly at the waist.

"Cap'n, weren't we getting a turn with him tonight?" Cecco asked, forgetting the impudence of the question in his disappointment.

Hook turned, squelching Peter into his body with renewed fervor.

"Who said anything about you getting a turn?"

The pirates eyed each other.

"No one," Cecco quickly corrected himself. "It only seemed fitting-- we thought. With him healed and all--" but the captain turned and was already heading towards his cabin, trophy in tow. Clutching Peter's chest tightly to his own, Hook smiled when he felt the boy's rapid pulse slow once more. He had to admit he preferred the boy's fear when it was caused by someone else.

***

"It was stupid of you."

Hook looked up at Peter, who was soaking in the tub. "What was?"

"Showing me off to them. I was out of sight and out mind, but now they're jealous."

"And?" Hook barked, annoyed by Peter's audacity, though he could easily guess what the boy was driving at.

"And-- just-- they'll mutiny. You shouldn't show me around."

"You know, Robert may be an idiot but he was right. I don't keep you around for advice."

"Oh? What do you keep me for, then?" Peter climbed out of the tub, his naked form shivering as he made his way across to the towel.

Hook looked in dismay at the big trail of water under Peter's feet. "For warping the wood of my floor, I'll venture."

Peter laughed with an abandon Hook rarely had the pleasure to witness. He was adorable this way-- his usual frown nowhere in sight, replaced by that sunny little disposition that had always characterized the boy before his capture, albeit without the grating arrogance and vanity.

"Let me dry you off," Hook quickly offered. Peter plopped down onto Hook's lap, wrapping the towel around himself coyly. Hook rubbed his back, pressing Peter's wet body into his own.

Peter threw his head back, his hair grown long enough to slap against his shoulders when it was wet. Hook grimaced at the brief shower he received as a result. Perhaps it had been longer than three months. He ran his hook through the boy's dripping locks, untangling them before they dried into hideous knots as usual. He saw both of their forms in the mirror he'd strategically placed for the express purpose of enjoying the Peter's beauty from all sides. There was something frightening about how scrawny and pale the nude figure appeared compared to his own. His hair might grow, but the boy himself never would. Hook was all gaudiness and surreptitiousness in that reflection, concealing his lurid lust from the child who sat there so white and innocent. Though not so innocent anymore, perhaps, Hook reasoned as he looked at Peter's lopsided smile.

The boy's hands slipped into Hook's sleeves, sliding along the forearms until they grasped at the very elbows. "Why do you keep me, really?"

"For company," Hook said, letting the towel fall to the floor, though Peter' hair was still dripping everywhere. "We're not so different sometimes, are we?"

"But you're old!" Peter said, breaking the heavenly contact, and using his hands to move himself back towards Hook's knees. How the man wished his body would calm down and not disturb the boy in his lap! There it was-- the flicker of fear in Peter's eyes. No matter how tipsy he was-- how familiar and relaxed he acted-- there was one thing he was always on guard against. He had to be distracted again. There was no hope for intimacy, of course, but Hook wanted to make this cheery atmosphere last a little longer.

"Old, I'll grant you. But does that mean we can't ever hope to be friends?" He pulled off his coat, putting it around Peter's naked shoulders. Peter's hands barely made it out of the long sleeves. The flamboyant matching hat was conveniently just within reach on the nearby table, and Hook pulled it down to the boy's eyes. "I'd rather teach you endlessly than talk to those oafs."

"How do I look?" Peter grinned, his attention completely diverted to his new wardrobe.

"Wonderf--" but Peter had already jumped off and rushed to the mirror on those incongruously thin legs, which were still visible where the coat ended below the knee. He posed, tilting the hat to the side and generally flirting with his reflection. Hook shook his head, smiling at what a fop in the making he had acquired. After admiring himself to his satisfaction, Peter turned around, blowing at the feather cascading from the hat's edge and obscuring some of his vision.

"I only need a sword. Then I'll really be like you." The pearly whites shone brilliant in the candlelight.

"I'll give you a sword after I cut off your hand," Hook rasped, standing up and grabbing at Peter, throwing him down onto the large bed, and giving in to the urge to kiss the tender skin violently. Body and boy were abstracted from each other for a moment, the writhing, gasping, squirming of the small frame underneath him almost animal in its struggle.

"Stop it!" Peter shouted, panicking. Even after all his experience, he still could not always predict such an outburst from Hook. The pirate's body convulsed, but he pulled away at the sound of the voice, fist pressed to his lips as rational thought and self-control slowly seeped back to their place. Peter's body still lay splayed out, thin torso exposed by the open coat, bouncing up and down with fearful breaths.

"Oh Peter--" Hook finally descended again, and though the boy flinched, no hand touched him. "What I wouldn't do to have you again--"

"If you let me go afterwards, I'll let you." Peter heard the words he said as something foreign. His eyes flew up to Hook's. The man was frozen by the suggestion. Peter could imagine everything perfectly. He would make Hook promise to be gentle, and in the morning would already be headed home. Perhaps he would even stay to have breakfast before going out. Yet Hook was still hesitating, and Peter had no qualms about doing something bold if a chance for freedom was at stake. He slipped up to a sitting position, sliding out of the coat, wrapping his arms around Hook's neck and planted a kiss on his lips.

"Damn you, Pan!" Hook pulled away for a moment, only to return to the kiss, fingers running along the small jawbone.

What a shameless tease he was when he wanted something, Hook mused. "Alright, I'll let you go after ten nights."

Peter's face fell. "Ten? How about one?"

"How about," Hook said, pulling his hat off of Peter, "we don't bargain, and just agree on ten."

"But--"

"We'll go nice and slow," Hook muttered, trailing his metal along Peter's breastbone.

The boy shivered. "Please. Three, maybe?"

They settled on seven, with Peter promising to be a most willing participant, though he felt anything but willing after bargaining with no clout. Peter lay down on Hook's bed, already trembling. As usual, nothing was going according to his plans. Hook rubbed scented oil into his skin, taking the opportunity to massage Peter into relaxation. Seven times, was all it would take. Seven times to enjoy Peter's body was more valuable to Hook's damned lust than an eternity with Peter Pan himself. Noble intentions never lasted.

"Does it feel nice?"

Peter felt Hook's hot breath on his shoulder and nodded quickly, unthinking in his nervousness. Hook took out some caramelized sugar he had kept on reserve in a small tin. It was to be a reward for Peter for some more honorable achievement than cheapening himself like this. A reward for Hook too, to give them to Peter-- for keeping the pledge he was now breaking. Sweetness was sweetness, whether earned or not, and the boy's eyes widened, a light smile passing his lips. It was so easy to please him sometimes.

The rum followed, passing easily enough through Peter's mouth with the caramel as a decoy, and he downed an entire pint without discomfiture. He could not, however, ignore the warmth that hummed in his stomach before sending out scorching little worms to tunnel out to the rest of his body. Growing hot, then slightly dizzy, he helped Hook out of his harness. Not such a tease now, Hook noted with dismay, as Peter's hands immediately left after doing their duty.

"I want you to show me you're enjoying this, Pan. Perhaps you'll have to pretend at first, but I hope that will change."

Peter stared dumbly at him for a few moments, before running his hands across Hook's chest. Hook rolled over onto his back on the bed next to Peter, and the boy quickly caught on. He straddled his captor, leaning forward to kiss his neck, biting gently at his ear, and running his tongue against the jaw-line, already rough with stubble. The actions were like a parody of what had been done to him so many times, and Peter was beginning to smile. The mimetic game was ridiculous, but Hook seemed to enjoy himself-- intense blue eyes clouding over, and lips curling into a genuine smile. Peter finally kissed that smile, though he did not have the audacity to invade with his tongue as he was probably expected to do. Hook's eyes fluttered closed in pleasure, and Peter's confidence mounted. Perhaps he would be let go sooner if he did well, but he dared not ask for fear of being annoying at an inopportune moment.

Hook rolled over with him, and Peter found himself on his back again. He lay quietly as Hook retouched his makeup. "We're going to start soon," the man rasped, already full of need.

Peter was exceedingly nervous. Each of the previous times had hurt greatly and the memories were returning with dreadful detail in his imagination. His senses were assaulted on all sides-- the pungent aroma of his own skin, the mind-blowing syrupiness of the sweetmeat in his mouth-- stronger than any berry-- the internal burning heat, and Hook's insistent fingers pressing almost painfully into his tense muscles, forcing them to loosen. The man finally lay down next to Peter, pushing the boy onto his side to face away and molding him to his own body. Peter's heartbeat flew into panicked frenzy, though he consciously tried to calm down as he felt the familiar cold oil being rubbed into his cleft.

Hook felt the body in front of him stiffen, and the frightened expression on Peter's face as he tried to turn it back made Hook hardly able to contain his lust. It was to be his curse that what he considered his purest love would always be marred by these violent impulses to take Peter resistant and unwilling. He shook it from himself and rubbed the boy down, moving continuously forward, until he was stroking an area that made Peter try to squirm away, held fast by Hook's right arm coming under his ribcage and wrapping around. The naughty fairies had been far gentler. And here, in Hook's arms, he felt trapped. He began to hate this whole enterprise, wondering what had possessed him to not only suggest it, but also put on that shameful display.

Hook's fingers traveled back until they rediscovered the taut ring. Dipping into more lubricant first, the man entered the boy slowly and considerately. Peter arched away from the invasion, head narrowly missing Hook's head behind it. A tiny whimper was choked by the stuffy air of the cabin. Hook bit his lip, feeling Peter gripping his finger mercilessly, his tightness practically virginal after the long hiatus.

"Shh, shh--" Hook stroked the boy's stomach with his foreshortened arm when he heard something like sniffling. It was discouraging that the boy was already on the brink of tears from one digit. "I love you. I want to love you. Let me love you. Tell me when it hurts."

"N--now." Peter's voice was trembling. His body was heating up with fear and a strange physical tension. He was incapable of achieving anything beyond an unpleasant feeling of need, but it still made every touch, every caress on the rest of his body feel exceedingly sensual.

Details. He was paying attention to all the wrong details, he sensed. All his impressions were becoming progressively more confused. He knew he felt pain only by watching the way the sheets bunched up in his fingers, knuckles whitening. The tears coursing down his own face felt like someone else's.

"Are we alright?" Hook said, but it was as if Peter could only sense the vibrations in the man's chest passing through his own. It felt strange to shake his head-- the neck no longer seemed his to control.

"It will pass. We'll wait for you."

Peter turned his head back, but instead of listening on what the man was saying, was transfixed by the motions the mustache made as Hook explained something. The lips suddenly descended on Peter's, and the boy thought he could feel Hook's mouth engulfing his insides. The idea was so unpleasant that he groaned. Hook came away from the kiss, and exited Peter's backside to collect more oil before easing in again, moving the finger back and forth languidly, wet slippery sounds suddenly very loud and unpleasant. The room seemed to run about, and Peter could not fix his gaze on any one thing.

Finally the muscles relaxed somewhat. "Ready for more?" Peter shook his head, his expression completely unhappy.

"It will go by faster if we don't keep stopping, you realize. But whatever you want is fine by me," Hook said, trying to keep the urgency in his voice masked. It was a lie-- his erection was straining madly to enter the tight heat he was manually penetrating. Peter suddenly found himself feeling very tired and wanting to go to bed.

" Have another caramel, lad." Hook practically shoved the piece of candy into Peter's mouth, not using the fingers that had been penetrating, but some residue of the oil still coated it with a brief, nasty taste. Sucking on the cloying burnt sugar did allow Peter to forget the raw tenderness of his opening for a moment. Teardrops were making a large spot of dampness on the sheets in front of his face.

"Alright now?" Hook asked, praying Peter would answer in the affirmative. The boy's face was pain-wracked, but he nodded silently. He would nod until he was dying. He only had to finish one of these, and there would only be six left after that. Six. A whole six. And he would be sore for those, as well, Peter realized with dismay.

Hook moved Peter up his thighs and unbuttoned the breeches to release his throbbing member. Peter listened intently as Hook threw lubricant over the shaft, dreading the feeling such a massive organ would soon produce inside him. He felt the head of Hook's cock pushing itself into his crack, seeking the portal to slip into. Only one repositioning of his hips and a thrust and Hook would be inside--


	10. A Despicable End

Peter suddenly lifted off the bed, sobbing.

"I can't do it. I can't do it."

"Surely you can," Hook said, a bit hoarsely, now mad with desire unfulfilled.

"I can't. It hurts. I won't do it."

Hook rose to his feet, inelegant in his arousal, plucking Peter from the air and pressing the boy's body back into his own. Peter's arms circled Hook's neck, sobbing raggedly into his own arm.

"I do want to leave. I just can't-- make myself--"

Hook sighed, devastated. He pulled the boy back to the bed. Peter's sniffling continued.

"You're not angry with me, are you?"

The innocence of the boy's voice dissolved any remaining annoyance that festered in Hook's heart, especially as a new idea crept in uninvited. "No, lad. I love you too dearly."

He lay back beside Peter, hand suddenly descending down to the boy's crotch. Peter sucked in air and tried to squirm away, feeling the strange stiffening up again.

"Stop," he whispered without conviction, beginning to writhe in shameful responsiveness as Hook's hand continued manipulating his body, knowing and experienced. It was a strange sensation, and not very pleasant. Peter felt suddenly needy-- craving contact. His own hands slipped down, vacillating between the urge to help with other nearby areas and an impulse to manually suppress the excitement. Tinker Bell had scolded him thoroughly about these phenomena when she first discovered him in the deep woods with the naughty fairies, and Peter learned that this pleasure was not for him but for the ordinary people living in London and other such mundane places. He flew into the woods only when he was sure Tinker Bell would not follow-- eager to remain distinct from his race in her eyes. And yet Hook, who was by no means a confidant, now enjoyed being privy to these dark secrets. Peter threw his head back, trying to remember the motions of that large firm hand for later use, but at the same time completely distracted by the strange, mind-melting effects they produced.

Hook, on the other hand, was growing concerned. Peter was obviously enjoying the skills he had to offer, however reluctantly, but never seemed to reach the verge of a release, and the excitement began to wane of itself.

"You're so young--" Hook whispered in dismay, slowing down his strokes. "How cruel that such a lovely creature must be forever barred from one of life's greatest ecstasies--"

Peter managed to push the hand away and curl up, facing the wall. "I don't want you to see me naked," he sobbed. "I don't want to do anything. I just want to go to sleep."

"That's the rum talking." Hook wanted to turn the boy around again, but a mere touch sent him sobbing and trying to bury his face in the bedcovers.

"I'm a whore-- just like they said."

"You're not a whore--" Hook said, trying to frantically think of some other name for what he was forcing the boy to do. "We do this for love. In loving--" His finger idly stroked one of the two indentations on Peter's bony back, but the boy flinched away.

"I don't love you. And I never will."

It was a bitter truth Hook knew well enough, though he dearly wished the boy had not set it in stone. "As friends, then."

"A friend would let me go," Peter muttered into the bedspread, gathering his body up even more tightly.

"I will," Hook whispered into the boy's ear, leaning over him. He rolled Peter back around to face him. The chains for the large bed had been left on the bedposts, though they had not been used in weeks. Hook quickly shackled both of the boy's wrists, taking advantage of his distracted state.

"I'm going to help you help yourself, boy," Hook said slowly, positioning himself on his knees between Peter's legs. "You'll see that it's not as horrible as you imagine, and then you can decide for yourself about the other times."

"No, no, no-- stop it-- please--" Peter whimpered as he felt Hook's hand come underneath and lift his bottom to slip in a pillow.

"So it won't hurt as much-- because I do want to see your face-- These sheets are freshly laundered, and I promise you there won't be a drop of blood spilled."

The tears came unchecked once Peter realized it was no longer his decision whether he got used or not. He squeezed his thighs together and tried to kick Hook hard enough to deter him. The man wanted to apply more oil, but Peter must have been clenching on purpose, and even a finger could hardly slip inside. No kisses, compliments, or threats had any effect. He finally chained Peter's ankles too, with some difficulty.

"What I do now, is entirely my responsibility," Hook attempted to reassure the boy he had so forcefully sprawled out into the wanton position. "There's nothing you can do, and therefore you're not whoring yourself."

There was doubt as to whether Peter even heard the captain's words through his own hysterics. His limbs still struggled against their restraints, his lean body managing to twist and contort itself, not welcoming Hook's intruding digits in the slightest. The man coaxed as long as his patience allowed -- longer, even, it seemed -- but there was no sign that the crying would ever let up. When Hook finally slapped Peter on the cheek out of frustration, the latter only set to bawling louder. He did not want to start with the boy in this condition, and finally opted to use the painkiller, pouring it down Peter's throat, with more than half spilling out onto the sheets from the boy's protestations. Hook rose from the bed to wait for the drug to set in, pacing the room and wiping the sweat off his brow.

"You gave me the painkiller," Peter moaned, not the accusation but the pathos in his words curdling Hook's blood with guilt. "You didn't even give it to me when I was hurting because you said it was bad--"

"If you had had any intentions of calming down without it--" Hook trailed off, at a loss for words when he saw the last shimmering droplets spill out of the eyes he worshipped. The boy relaxed any tension in his coercively sprawled body, acknowledging defeat. There was something sickening about it all, but it was too late for amends to be made. Hook began to slicken up his own member, which, after all this time of unappetizing struggle, was quite quiescent.

He suddenly remembered that he had not diluted the drug as he should have. Indeed, the boy had grown very quiet, and his eyes were beginning to linger on the blinks. The sinking feeling that had begun before was now the dominant sensation in Hook's body. "Damn you, Peter, damn you and your tantrums! If you don't wake up tomorrow, it'll be your fault, not mine."

Peter only gave a small sob. Hook was very busy with trying to resurrect his arousal, but it was to no avail. His hands shook. The like had not happened to him since he had been a young boy, and he now felt a compulsion to beat Peter to a pulp for his antics. He unlocked everything except one wrist, and turned Peter onto his stomach to avoid the boy's mournful gaze. Yet his former excitement was still not to be salvaged.

"I just want to go home--" Peter sniveled. He was mostly quiet now, besides the occasional convulsive sniffle, but this served no purpose for Hook in his incapable state. The man felt strong urges to take a sword to the lithe body displayed so conveniently before him, but Peter rolled over to relieve the uncomfortable twisting of his arm. His face looked more childish than ever-- pouting and drowsy-- and Hook could swear he made it look that way to spite him. He left the cabin, out to join his men, who had taken to carousing every night under the relaxed discipline on the ship. There was nothing like rum to drown shame and frustration.

***

Peter woke up promptly when Hook stumbled into the cabin, slamming the door carelessly, a half-full bottle still in his hand. The boy had never seen him so drunk.

"Do you know, Peter, that my life holds no meaning?" He almost shouted, waving the bottle about. "I have no place to go, no friends to speak of. Do you know what my most ambitious goal is, of late? To rape you. My entire life-- revolves around your ass. Your exquisite tightness."

Hook laughed loudly though not mirthfully, his eyes clouded over. He staggered over to the bed.

"My entire life now!" He pulled a pistol from his belt, laughing stridently, and brought the barrel to his temple. Peter's breath hitched, as he immediately imagined the unpleasant outcome of such a suicide. His resentment dissolved into fear, and, even in his stupor, Hook noted this.

"Nervous are we? It's very bloody business-- very bloody." He lowered the pistol and practically fell onto the bed. Peter's one tethered arm prevented him from moving to the other side entirely, but a desperate twist of his body brought him out of harm's way.

"You're very drunk," the boy said timidly, hoping the man would abandon his whimsical inspiration and put the pistol away.

"And you're very pretty, even when you've been crying. All swollen. All rosy." Hook descended on Peter's mouth with his own, still burning with residual alcohol. Peter made no resistance, too frightened of what Hook might do in this state, even if unprovoked. Suddenly he felt something cold and unforgiving at his entrance.

"If I want to end my misery, then I should end the root of my misery, right? Right?" Peter's eyes grew enormous as he felt the metal barrel of the gun entering him. He shook his head frantically, breathing going ragged from the terrible fright sweeping over him. He could already imagine the pain, unbearable and deep inside him, if Hook were to pull the trigger. He could not say a word, and merely grasped Hook's arm, supplicating with his eyes. The captain was in a strange humor, and grinned languidly as Peter whimpered, taking in the gun to the trigger. Peter breathed in short bursts, pathetically afraid to die. He gasped and jerked when he felt Hook's finger move and heard a click, but no shot sounded.

Hook roared with manic laughter.

Peter could not help the sudden fury that built up. "You bastard!" he shouted, not hesitating on words he had only heard from others before. He pummeled Hook's face with his free hand as aggressively as he could in his somewhat awkward position. The captain yanked the gun out. Small parts of the barrel were sharp and protruding, but Peter only vaguely felt the lacerations inside. He groaned as he thought of how he would feel after the drug wore off. Hook's amusement turned to anger at Peter's blows, his rage given righteousness by the alcohol he'd imbibed. He hit the boy several times in retaliation, but his aim and force were greatly diminished by his drunken state and did the boy little harm.

"You pervert!" Peter continued when he felt no more blows and reopened his eyes.

"Nobody's perfect, Pan, nobody," Hook drawled repetitively, face very flushed, and eyes obviously unfocused. "Nobody-- except you, my little whore." He ran his tongue over Peter's lips before easily flipping him over onto his stomach, tethered arm twisting more painfully in their haphazard positions. The dimness of the remaining candles' light, and Hook's general disorientation, made it difficult to thrust in properly, and he found the place only after four excruciating attempts that had Peter bawling before he was even breached. Peter cried for oil and for Hook to take off the metal appendage that he feared would accidentally impale him at any moment, but he doubted that he was even heard amid the loud grunts above him and the squeals of the wooden joints of the bed punctuating each thrust.

Hook's hand somehow alighted around Peter's neck as an anchor against his body, and practically kept him from breathing until completion. The act itself was mercifully short. Fewer than twenty quick thrusts and Hook was satisfied-- barely pulling out before slumping back onto the bed next to the body that he had defiled. Peter's neck ached almost more than his backside. The asphyxiation had made it well-nigh impossible to unclench and accept Hook's intrusion, much as Peter had tried. The boy remained motionless as his rapist instantly fell asleep, snores hot and heavy on the back of his neck. A heavy arm lay across his back, and the man's body was still partially on top of the slight frame. He had never felt so devoid of everything. The feeling of utter emptiness prevented even tears from forming. Peter continued to lie in silence, occasionally shuddering from the pain that was mounting as the painkiller wore off.

He fancied he felt nothing-- the soreness seemed to wrack only the heavy burden of a shell that his body now seemed. It was a shell he heartily wished he could cast off as easily as Hook had stripped him of his clothes earlier in the evening. There was no anger, no sadness, nor even wish for a physical escape or anything else for a long time.

Time passed, though Peter did not even venture to guess how much. His thinned blood made his injuries only worse, and he was still bleeding enough to feel it ooze out of him, warm and sticky between his thighs. The room was in complete darkness as the last of the candles burned out, and Peter grew too uncomfortable not to shift. The captain had not undressed in the slightest, besides unbuttoning his breeches and undoing his belt, and something metal on the latter had been continuously digging into Peter's flesh on one side. A spark of life returned to the boy's visage when his apathetic mind finally ventured to guess that it was a bundle of keys. The bundle of keys Hook had always meticulously kept out of his reach. Peter shifted under the heavy arm, momentarily paralyzed by a pain of new intensity. He did not let out a sound, however, and only inhaled deeply, tears springing to his eyes as a weak will to escape, or at least survive, re-materialized. His fingers traveled shyly across the sheets, groping for the metal in the dark. It was a hefty bunch, and Peter slid them off the belt with excruciating slowness. He had always watched carefully for which keys Hook used, especially for the various restraining devices, but it was very dark and shuffling through them by touch with only one hand was a hard task. Soon enough he undid his restraint and slid out from under Hook's arm with due caution. Walking was unbearable and moreover loud on the creaky floorboards, so he drifted like a ghost across the cabin, finding the door left carelessly unlocked.

The night air that greeted Peter's body on deck was colder than he had anticipated, and he was sorely tempted to return and retrieve his clothing, lying somewhere in the dark, near the bed. Fear stopped him from turning back, however, and the easiest expedient he could think of was to wrap himself in the only piece of fabric to be found on deck-- the ship's flag.

He flew off soundlessly, a dark form over the water, shivering from cold and ever-mounting pain. He settled into the branches of a tree only a little way from shore. Feeling neither excitement nor urgency, he remained thus-- unable to sleep, watching the pirate ship sit motionless in the moonlight. Peter's occasional sniffles could barely be heard over the veritable din of crickets in the grass.

***

Hook awoke to a searing thirst and pain in his head, but could not summon the energy to get up and attempt to alleviate either. The events of the previous night slowly began to resurface to the forefront of his memory, fuzzy and deranged.

Pan.

He felt a twinge of some unpleasant but hazy recollection and looked across the cabin to the boy's empty bed. Blood stains on his own sheets finally caught Hook's eye-- dark burgundy by now. He groaned and buried his face back into the pillow, hoping everything would return to normal if only he woke up properly. He could remember sweating, and writhing, and frantic, grasping, thin fingers on his arms, but hardly anything else.

He opened his eyes cautiously again, grimacing at how the sunlight in the room seemed to penetrate his very brain. The sight of the unlocked chains on the bedposts was sobering enough to urge Hook to get up. He dunked his entire head in the washbasin, the cold shock prompting him to recall some grating sound of incessant, hysterical crying. Suddenly nearly everything that had happened before he out-drank his crewmembers rushed into place-- their agreement, Peter's exasperating change of heart--

Hook found his keys immediately outside the door of his cabin, on a floor that was dirty enough to almost obscure a trail of occasional blood drops. Hook felt his innards sink. He had taken the liberty to rape Peter Pan, and could not recall a single pleasurable thing about the experience. Worse yet, he had let him blithely go on his merry way. No, not blithely, Hook thought worriedly as he returned to his cabin and inspected the blood on his bed. The boy had been bleeding profusely. Had he beaten the child? Where was he now? Dreadful images were conjured up of that gangly body lying moribund in the woods, or perhaps even slimy and bloated at the ocean bottom. Or perhaps the boy was alright after all, and heading back to his home just as he had wished through his pitiful sobs yesterday. The thought was somewhat comforting, but not enough to make the pistol inexplicably left between the sheets look any less friendly.

Had he gone mad and shot his obsession? Hook reassured himself that he would likely find a bullet mark somewhere if he had. Unless it had lodged in the body-- There was an awful lot of blood on the sheets.

Hook resolved to stop contemplating the matter and try to enjoy his few last moments. He loaded in a bullet and powder from a drawer in his desk and sat down-- ready to serve as prosecutor, judge, and executioner, all in one. A despicable end to a despicable life. He stared at the barrel, too lethargic to consummate the sentence, which was really less a punishment than a cowardly mercy. Living had grown extremely tiresome in the course of the last few days.

"Cap'n!"

Hook grimaced when he heard the gratingly familiar sound of Smee's voice.

"Cap'n, what in the name of Proteus are you doing?!"

"It's only the best remedy on the face of the earth for a headache." Hook was too miserable to snigger. Smee hurried over and officiously put the pistol out of reach. His old eyes needed only a quick scan of the room to notice a certain prisoner's absence.

"Oh, Cap'n, you'll catch him again, some day. He'll get careless--"

Smee picked up the crumpled pile of the boy's clothing from the floor and Hook could not help but feel an inadvertent pleasure at imagining the boy cavorting about the woods in delicious nudity. He sighed, disgusted by the prospect of another day in this meandering eternity-- apparently not even a conscience to keep him company in this godforsaken land.

***

Peter had not done more than intermittently doze during the night. His blood flow eventually ceased, though the coarse canvas that kept him from the cold was made impossibly dirty before that. He watched the ship sit quietly, now bathed in sunlight and its occupants still invisible. He was injured, and his surroundings triggered an instinctual response to stay put and nurse himself to health before attempting any long journeys. There was a part of him that was also curious to witness the commotion caused by his escape. No commotion seemed to be starting, even at this rather late hour, and Peter finally cursed himself for remaining in the vicinity of his captors. As if he did not really wish to leave, Peter spat in disgust at himself, realizing too late that even this was a habit he had picked up on Hook's ship. Wincing, he lifted into the air, wrapping the flag around his vulnerable body, and began to head in the vague direction of the home he had not seen for so long.

He reeked of blood and the pirate ship, so creatures of the woods, with whom he would have formerly been on friendly terms, shunned him. He took an opportunity to bathe in a brook he passed, and washed off the dried blood and the makeup still caked on his face-- a hateful reminder of his status aboard his prison. To his dismay, he found the water too cold, and sincerely wished he could take a leisurely, steaming bath in Hook's cabin. His makeshift garment continued to carry the scent of sea salt, gunpowder, and violent injury wherever he went, and he wondered if the creatures around him were not right in their suspicions. No pirate, he was, but his ordeal did make him feel alien to the island he had claimed as home. He foraged for berries on his way, but his jaws moved mechanically; he derived no pleasure from eating, or anything else around him.

Everything would be put right when he would arrive home, he assured himself, though he also greatly dreaded the inevitable questions, and inquisitive eyes roaming his damaged figure. He cringed when he merely imagined the pity that would suffuse Wendy's gaze, but he was also too listless to invent an alternative explanation for his absence. He would need to return to his old assertiveness and independence. How difficult it would be-- to emulate what had come so naturally to him before. He flew slowly, and reached the tree house when the sun was already setting.

The underground home was abandoned, and small cobwebs in certain places hinted that it had been unoccupied for many days. Peter knocked politely on Tink's boudoir, just in case, but found it empty when he opened it. He lit a tiny candle and collapsed onto his old bed of leaves, staring up at the gnarly branches above him, both heartbroken and relieved to still be in solitude. If the boys had gone off and found new shelter for fear of the pirates or Indians, he would find them eventually. He preferred not to dwell on these thoughts, because they inevitably led to a glum suspicion that he had been deliberately abandoned. It was impossible to fall asleep in his bed, in the harrowing silence, and exited the tree house, wincing at the awkward, now painful, motions he had to make to do this.

It was using the sun's last rays that he found a place in the middle of the woods and crouched down to perform what he had been dreading all day. His straining transformed soreness back into debilitating agony. There was no one present to see him bawling, to make jeering remarks, or pass judgments with perhaps no words spoken but nevertheless a smug, sneering expression. Yet neither was there anyone to worry about his blood flow reopening, no one to give him painkiller, and hold him, and clean him, and caress him. How pathetic he was-- practically pining for the companionship of the man who had been so brutal to him only the previous night. He was in desperate need of other people, Peter finally admitted to himself. The Indian village was the surest bet, and he made a beeline for it as soon as he had cleaned up the traces of blood.


	11. A Child's Graces

"Please make this your last, Cap'n," Smee begged. Meddlesome Smee. Hook made a grand effort not to spill rum on the table as he poured his umpteenth drink that morning. He found solace only in his wine cellar. He had been drinking straight through the two days since Pan's disappearance-- staying mostly in his cabin, but sometimes sauntering out to the deck, giving his men unintelligible orders, and leaning over the side, seasick but happy to stare for hours at his dark reflection, stark against the sky's reflection. Sometimes he stared at the island, their accursed prison, fancying he could make out the form of a sprightly boy above the tree line. Sometimes he'd see a port too, with taverns, girls, lights, and merry sailors from all corners of the globe, and go down to his cabin for more of whatever was still on the table when the vision would threaten to fade. He dreaded sleep and the subsequent hangover, and avoided both.

Hook picked up the glass of rum and stared through its honeyed prism to see two faces, distorted by the shape of the glass.

"What do you want?" He barked as soberly as he could, slamming the drink down.

"We were just looking around, Cap'n," Robert's voice suddenly sounded from his left. Hook soon realized his entire crew was surrounding him. He stood up unsteadily, but Bill's recognizably strong grip on his shoulder pushed him back down. Smee's stout form was hovering uncertainly in the doorway.

"Nice things you've got here, Cap'n," Cecco grinned, running a cigar under his nose.

"Almost too nice," Starkey added, running his hand along the bedcovers.

"Damn you all to hell!" Hook shouted, his voice hoarse with drink. Alf caught his claw arm before it could strike anything, and Bill held his other.

Cecco opened Hook's shirt, and the knife sliced through the leather harness. They pulled off his dearest weapon with ease, and set to pummeling his body with fists and boots. Smee made feeble attempts to get the violence to end with his pleas, but was only pushed aside.

"I'll flay the hide from all your flesh!" Hook yelled, blood dribbling from a split lip, as his elbows were secured with rough rope behind his back.

"We figured we aren't going to go anywhere with the likes of you on board," Robert said, donning one of Hook's more dandyish hats.

"Hey, and where's he keeping the kid?" Alf cried after breaking down the door to the closet when he could not find the appropriate key.

"He's long-gone, he is!" Smee cried immediately, hoping to save his captain another beating.

"Calm yourself, mate," Robert said, examining a sword. "When we get ourselves back to some place of repute, we can have all the women you'll be wanting."

"Idiots!" Hook wheezed, still bending double from a kick delivered to his stomach by Starkey. "There's no way to leave this bloody place."

Cecco turned from the mirror he was using to trim his mustache. "Maybe if you weren't so obsessed with your whore and your liquor, we wouldn't be coming back here over and over like some dancing drunks."

"Aye," Bill said, still restraining Hook while the others stole and ruined items in his cabin. "It's a sorry captain that does nothin' but sit in harbor and treat his crew like the rats in his hold."

"I'll treat you far worse than rats," Hook muttered, knees beginning to sag, though it was a resignation less to his mutinous crew than to the light nausea from his earlier drinking.

If rage and pain hadn't sobered Hook enough, entering the cold sea with a painful slap did. His boots and coat had fortunately been removed before in the pirates' greedy ransacking, but even his minimal outfit made it hard to come back up for air once it took on water.

"You've drowned him!" Hook heard Smee shouting as soon as his head managed to rise back to the surface.

"He'll make it back to land if he's got anything left to live for..." Robert said just loud enough to be heard down at the water, casting a casual glance over the side before heading away somewhere. Though Hook hurled all the obscenities and curses he could muster between inadvertent gulps of bitter water, the ship turned and headed out to the horizon.

"I can't swim, Cap'n!" Smee shouted, appearing at the aft of the ship with a look of genuine desperation. "Get to shore, and I'll come for ye as soon as I get the chance!"

As the ship made quick distance away from his position, Hook finally had to face the reality that his only hope was to try to reach the island. Much as he tried, the rope around his elbows could not be loosened, and he made very slow progress kicking only with his legs. He floundered, and choked on water and even on his own hair, the wet mass of which he could not brush from his face except by diving under. He could hardly stop without sinking, and at one point became convinced that his heavy clothing would be the death of him. Thoughts of the crocodile occasionally crossed his mind and seized him with panic, but he pressed on, driven by fury. Ideas for revenge seethed in his mind until he finally crept out on the sand-- exhaustion, thirst, splitting headache, and depression making battle for dominance while he lay gasping for sweet air. The rising surf was soon lapping at his feet again, and Hook rose with reluctance.

He crept to the edge of the beach, but the woods were too thick to walk into easily. He had no weapons, nor even footwear, and barbed vegetation soon convinced him he was better off on the sand. His clothes were drying up quickly in the oppressive heat, starched with salt. He traipsed along the wooded border, hoping to discover a stream running into the sea. He found a tiny one soon enough, prostrating himself to drink the cool water and wash off the salty taste from his parched tongue. He lay back into the cool shade, too lazy to try to extricate himself out of the binding rope, and prayed his hangover would end before night set in.

***

Peter tightened the flag around his frame. It had not been his idea to get washed by the women, and now he had been cast out of their tent, the whole Picaninny tribe whispering to each other, pointing. He had come to the Indians before when he was seriously injured. This time was different, everything was different, he knew it all too well, but even he did not expect such cold revulsion.

The chief made his way to the front of the crowd, still quite a few paces from Peter's lonely, ostracized figure. He spoke with the usual slow cadence in his native tongue, which Peter had never bothered to be proficient with in the first place, and by now had quite forgotten. He demanded English though he could already catch the drift.

"Peter Paleface has been with pirates. Not staying here."

"I don't want your hospitality." Peter spit on the floor, only remembering that it was a distinctly piratical habit when he heard murmurs in the crowd. "I only want clothing." It was a lie, but a necessary one to placate the lump beginning to form in his throat.

"Brave clothing is proud clothing. Peter Paleface we give only woman clothing."

Peter nodded woodenly and turned and walked into the woods. He thought he saw a look from Tiger Lily and dawdled on the outskirts of the camp, watching the usual night rituals from the darkness of the forest. His hopes were answered when the bonfires died down and he heard the girl making her way through the brush. He knew her steps would be stealthier if she were not trying to make her presence known, and she grinned a gleaming white crescent in the dark when Peter floated down from a branch he was perched on. She produced a set of clothes, and watched intently as the large flag fluttered to the floor. Though he had swum naked with Tiger Lily on many a hot, lazy afternoon, it felt strange now to have her stare so intently at him as he squirmed into his new outfit.

"What are you staring at?"

"You."

"Why."

"The moonlight reflects off your skin, Paleface. Not good for hunting."

"That's why I'm asking for clothes, stupid."

"Stupid yourself."

They crept back into the camp and crawled into a wigwam full of supplies. Both sat cross-legged, Tiger Lily watching Peter eat the cornbread she brought for him.

"Where are they all, anyway, the boys, Tink, -- Wendy?"

"Tink disappeared soon after you disappear. They came looking for her and asking us. Then the pirate ship leaves and they leave. Probably the other fairies took them home. Thought you died, even Father thought so."

Peter continued chewing wordlessly, staring off into space, then at Tiger Lily, who seemed to have changed since he last saw her. She was scrutinizing him just as fervently. He shuddered away when she suddenly reached out and touched his neck, still tender from that violent grasp the night before. It must have been a dark bruise there. His reflection in the water had been too murky to see that.

"So-- how was the pirate?" she finally asked.

"Hook?" Peter mumbled through a mouthful of bread. The girl nodded. "What should he be like?"

"Did Hook hit Peter Paleface?" she offered.

"No. I don't know. Sometimes, I guess." Peter averted his eyes but kept chewing.

Tiger Lily did not desist, and moved closer, fiddling with a leather fringe on Peter's outfit. "People of the tribe say Hook loved Peter Paleface like girl."

"Then tell people of the tribe to stop talking so much." The boy turned to face the other side, hoping to end the conversation.

"He put gold circles and marks on you."

"I'd take them off if I could."

She reached and touched the hoops still dangling from his ears. He hardly noticed them by now, but entreated her to take them off. The girl's hands were quick, and she transferred the jewelry to her own ears, evidently pleased.

"These are shiny!" She laughed as she tossed her head back and forth before turning to him again. "How does Hook love?"

"He doesn't," Peter said, going numb all over, feeling tired, so tired of discussing this, especially with her.

"He really make you a girl?"

"No." He turned away from her.

"Show where they hurt."

"No!" Peter bunched up his body, when Tiger Lily crawled around to face him again.

"I only want to see."

"Stop touching."

"Stupid."

"Stupid yourself."

They sat wordlessly, glaring at each other. Tiger Lily was the first to break the silence.

"Show how Hook touches and you get a knife."

Wary of bargains, Peter still knew a weapon was a wonderful thing. He pushed the girl back on the floor and began kissing her upper half with all the violence he recalled Hook doing to him.

"There. Happy now?"

"No. Liar. Hook did other things."

"So?" Peter's cheeks were blazing hot and he wondered if she could see that in the dimness of the moonlight streaming in through a flap of the tent.

"So show!"

"Don't want to."

Tiger Lily laughed and rolled herself over to be on top. Panic flared in Peter and he shoved her away violently. He was surprised when his hand hit something soft on her chest.

She cried out.

"It's your fault. Get off!" He tried to push her away again.

Tiger Lily smiled. "You used to be stronger."

"No, you used to be smaller. You're turning into a real grown-up. Soon you'll be fat and ugly and never run around the woods anymore."

She stopped laughing and slapped him across the face. He slapped her back, and so they continued back and forth, only half-angry. Her body was rubbing against his and he felt it againЧthat strange feeling he couldn't control. She noticed it and laughed, slinking down, the warmth of her body replaced by that of her breath.

Peter was surprised and almost protested before his thighs fell open in resignation. Mild anger, not terror accompanied the familiar feeling this time, and soft moisture instead of a callused hand made him sense even more urgency.

Peter suddenly felt his body go over a precipice he hadn't known existed.

His hands grasped at her, tugging on the coarse braids as the rest of his body went into a short spasm then settled into dark, heavy fatigue. He woke up without realizing he had fallen asleep. Tiger Lily was asleep next to him, grey-pink light from the wigwam's opening hitting her profile. He tied the waist-string of his pants back, and rolled up the cuffs again. The outfit was obviously meant for someone taller and wider.

He felt better, the pain of his injuries fading a little in the course of the night, and the memory of intense pleasure lingered on him like a balm, but the peculiar heavy feeling remained. He needed to lift into the air to dissipate the effect, he reasoned, but the lift would not occur. He put more mental energy into the task than he had ever done and still his body remained rooted to the ground.

Panic raced through his trammeled body. Tiger Lily shifted, eyes fluttering open.

"I can't fly," he said under his breath, unable to admit it more loudly.

"No?" She stretched, still groggy, not nearly as concerned as he thought the situation merited.

"I can't-- not even a little--"

"How you know you can't?"

"I just know!"

"Are you crying? Hook really make you a girl?"

Peter wiped at his nose furiously and stood up in the vain hope that this would help end his terrestrial confinement. There were voices outside, but only Tiger Lily turned to listen with worry, trying to shush him when he began hurling accusations at her.

"It's because of what you did to me! I can't fly anymore after you made me a grownup with your game!"

She waved her arms and shushed him, but Peter was beyond consolation. One of the women came looking for supplies in their wigwam and ran screaming alarm when she saw the exiled boy and the princess therein. Only then did Peter have enough presence of mind to grab the knife Tiger Lily extended to him and leap out, running into the woods before any more commotion developed.

***

Damn the man who thought up to secure his arms by the elbows, Hook thought. And damn Peter Pan for lopping off his hand and prompting them to use the more devious measure rather than a simple knot around the wrists. He would surely have freed himself by now if it had been around his wrists--

It was the beginning of his second day of marooning, and he had been unable to procure anything to eat, spending all his time trying to loosen, scrape away, tear the damned hemp cable apart. His forearms were numb most of the time and his back ached from the unrelenting tension of the position.

He had imagined his revenge a myriad of times, a myriad of different ways, and that dream had grown stale when hunger, pain, fatigue, and the irrepressible desire for alcohol gnawed at him as they did now. He lay listless, not quite wishing for death only because he yearned to see his crewmembers meet a more horrible, painful end than that to which they had subjected him.

His sanity was going fast, he noted, when the specter of the boy he'd ruined walked up to him, dressed in savage gear, features dour and only wary bemusement written on his face.

"What are you doing here?" The voice startled HookЧtoo real to be part of a hallucination.

"Please, lad, untie these ropes. My arms have a mind to die off."

Peter hesitated, and stayed out of reach. "I thought it was too far into shore for sea garbage to wash up."

"Laugh all you want but I'll admit I'm glad to see you." The boy was not laughing, far from it, but Hook pretended to ignore the stern look. He got up to his knees, sand sifting out of his uncombed hair.

"What happened to you?"

"My dogs mutinied at last. Nothing to tell. But look at you, decked out like a pretty savageЧ"

Hook did not venture to finish when the point of the dagger moved close to his throat.

"Don't talk to me as though I'm still your little prisoner-toy. Get up and keep your mouth shut if you've got nothing better to say."

Hook stood up slowly, shuddering at the tone. It was true. His little prisoner toy was gone, probably forever. And this creature who stood before him now was not quite the sprite he had trapped either, but the realization of how vulnerable he was sent chills up the captain's spine.

"Alright, lad, alright. I'm glad to see you're safe and sound, and that's the truth."

"No thanks to you."

"No thanks to me. Fair enough."

The boy was cold. Cold and angry, and why this was at all unexpected, Hook did not know. The closest thing he had to a friend on this island just happened to hate him to death.

They stared at each other as at a standoff. Hook noticed fading purple fingerprints on Peter's throat, still bruised from something that must have happened on the ill-fated night in the cabin. There was that familiar nervous bite on the lower lip, and Hook knew he would not be lost if only he could just insinuate himself back into the child's gracesЧbut only if there was no one else to interfere.

"Where are your friends?"

"I don't know. They left." Peter did not break eye contact. "Gave me up for dead, because I was gone so long, I guess."

Hook did not know whether to celebrate or fear for his life. One wrong phrase could condemn him. Peter suddenly gave him the perfect opportunity to blurt one out.

"But maybe you know where Tinker Bell is?"

"Are you referring to that fairy--"

"You know who she is."

Had the boy already found out, Hook wondered. Perhaps the Indians had found out somehow and told him? Perhaps the truth was better in these circumstances.

"She died. My men trapped her when she came looking for you and kept her under a glass bell while you were still trapped in the room, and she just went and died on us. You know how the men are-- Must have crushed her body." Peter's eyes went wide and Hook quickly realized that truth had not been the best option, feeling his words trailing off. "We didn't realize she'd expire like that, and it was the men keeping an eye on her--"

"Just quit talking. Quit explaining it away. You killed her. You think I'm going to help you now? For what? You don't even deserve pity."

"Pan--"

Peter stood motionless, watching the man take several steps toward him. Hook's hair was disheveled, stiff with sea salt, covered in sand that spilled from it whenever the long strands swayed. He was unshaven as well, looking scarier and wilder than usual, despite his desperation. Hook took another step.

"What do you want?"

"Release my arms for starters, my dear."

"I don't think I shall." Peter said, crossing his arms though the dagger was still in one of them. "What do you need your arms for, anyway? I don't remember you freeing mine too often."

Hook nearly forgot himself and said something angry but held his tongue. "You're right, I don't need my arms if you're going to be around. But if you plan to leave me, lad, please undo the ropes so that I don't starve like a dog."

Peter finally broke eye contact with that piercing blue.

"I'll stay. If only to see how you like it, being made so pathetic."

Hook raised his eyebrows. "Then I hope you won't mind escorting me back to that hold in the cave that we visited together. I recognize the coastline. It's somewhere in this vicinity."

Peter shrugged.


	12. A Common Enemy

Hook had been sure he knew the shortest route to his hold, but as soon as they left the beach they got hopelessly lost. They ventured into such bogs that Peter finally cut the rope binding Hook's elbows of his own accord. They both kept slipping, sinking knee deep into the bogs though they tried to follow grassy paths amongst the trees with strange protruding roots. Neither of them had any sense of direction after several hours spent wandering thus.

Though it was Hook who had decided on the path, he was cross and sorely missed having a crew to berate even for his own mistakes. He finally had an outburst at his largely blameless companion, lamenting that the boy chose not to just fly about and find the hold.

Peter glared at him and Hook apologized profusely, losing his footing in the meantime. Peter impassively watched him struggle to wade out of the mud, but promised to scope out the area. Hook clambered back to terra firma just in time to see Peter skip off across the bogs with far greater speed than he had allowed himself before.

Hook seated himself on the roots of a tree, finding this to be one of the few places with soil solid enough to be trusted. He was weak with hunger and still sore from abuse at the hands of his men, but he could not help feeling ecstasy at the fact that he had managed to find an ally in the boy. He only worried that Peter would misstep somewhere along the way, or forget the place where they had parted.

He would have to reward the boy in some way. He had already promised Peter heated baths, on the strong suspicion that there was some sort of container back in the treasure hold that could serve as a tub and on the assumption that he would be able to set up a fire.

Peter did not slow down when he was out of the man's sight. He had half a mind to abandon him, but something gnawed at his heart as soon as he made the decision. He had no pity for Hook, but he could not deny there had been a small sense of relief when he first recognized him on the beach. Friend or foe, he had come to know the captain intimately. Hook was one person who would not turn him away, as the rest of the inhabitants of the island did. He was now an earthbound prisoner of Neverland as much as anyone else and, sadly, Peter was craving someone who would not shun him. He began looking for their destination in earnest.

Time passed, though Hook had no way of measuring its passageЧeven the sun was rather obscure behind the dense foliage. He saw something move in the distance and was about to call out Peter's name when recognition petrified his entire body.

The birds in the trees flew up in a frenzy at the appearance of a ponderous reptilian body half-swimming, half-crawling in the shallow water, traveling with a sure and frighteningly familiar sense of purpose toward the captain. It had formidable speed, especially for something so large and cumbersome. Gathering his wits just in time, Hook clambered up the tree, though he could not progress very high up with only one hand at his disposal. He was on a branch far too low for his liking, especially when the crocodile swam up directly under him and missed his feet by only a few inches after catapulting its head out of the water and snapping its jaw.

Hook stood trembling and praying to no one in particular, fearing he would unbalance himself at any moment.

Peter arrived back at the scene when it was already growing dark, and was so surprised to find Hook mounted on the branch that he failed to notice the cause of the man's fright until he was almost too close for safety.

Hook waved one of his arms frantically for a moment before bringing it back to balance himself against the tree trunkЧreluctant to raise his voice and encourage the beast to try to reach him again. Peter approached cautiously, finally climbing up a neighboring tree and jumping nimbly from it to where Hook had become trapped.

He tried to help the captain pull himself up to a safer, more comfortable branch, which resulted in several close calls wherein both of them almost toppled from their perch into the waiting jaws of the crocodile. Night had descended by the time they managed it. Hook straddled the branch, wiping off beads of sweat with his tattered sleeve.

Peter removed himself to the branch's end, dangling his legs in a way that Hook was sure was overly inviting to the crocodile, but the man did not dare utter reproof after having been rescued.

"I found your hold. We weren't far from it at all. I just went off in the wrong direction at first."

Hook scoffed. "It's a shame that everything is currently out of our reach."

Peter looked down at the crocodile. "I brought you some food too, but I'm guessing it probably got crushed while I was trying to pull you up." He produced a small leather pouch that had been on his waist and tossed it over to Hook, who barely caught it and almost lost his balance in the process.

The berries inside were indeed crushed but Hook ate greedily, turning the pouch inside out and licking it clean when there was no more. He was slightly embarrassed when he realized how earnestly Peter was watching him.

"Did you like it? Aren't you glad you have me to bring you food?"

Hook thanked the boy, taking care to lay the praise on thick, but after two whole days of hunger the childish portion served only to make his stomach growl painfully. Hook tried to climb across to the other tree, but it was soon utterly out of the question, the branches being too thin and precarious.

Hook made his way back toward the safety of the tree trunk, slumping back into a sitting position. "It's no use. This beast will never tire of waiting as long as I'm up here."

Peter looked down again. "I don't know. I'd tire of it, if I were her."

"Please don'tЧ" Hook said without thinking. Peter turned to him. "Чdon't tire of it, that is."

Some time during the night it began to pour. The crocodile enjoyed it if anything, and Peter sat on the branch as if oblivious to how water was streaming down his hair and into his face. Hook felt like the odd one out, constantly trying to move his head under some shelter from the tree, often getting soaked when a giant leaf would collapse its water content.

"How can you just sit there like that?" Hook finally asked, his voice unintentionally loud with pent-up exasperation. "Like a forest animal--"

Peter looked at him with an unreadable expression, and suddenly jumped up to the next branch, disappearing off into the foliage at the top for a moment. He returned before Hook could invent a good reason for the boy to have done so, handing over a monstrously large leaf to his branch-fellow.

"Thank you--" Hook said, wrapping the green around his figure when he saw Peter was not expecting to share the makeshift umbrella. The boy was back to his post on the end of the branch, out of reach but so very thankfully still present.

"Hey, lad," Hook ventured again, hoping to tire the boy of distancing himself each time. "I can't help but notice you haven't taken advantage of your levitating ability all day--"

A glare. Perhaps that should have been left unmentioned. Hook felt the truth dawn on him.

"Pan! Did you swim all the way to shore from the ship that night? I can't recall a thing that happened, but whatever it wasЧ"

"It wasn't you. Nothing to do with you." Peter turned away, contemplating the fact that everything that happened to him ever since his capture had to do with Hook. His body had grown recalcitrant lately. It must have been a week since Tiger Lily deprived him of the power of flight and yet the memory still managed to excite him. He spit in disgust, hoping to hit the crocodile but unable to distinguish his small contribution from the raindrops as they landed on its leathery hide.

As soon the rain ceased, Peter settled on his stomach, letting all four limbs hang down, and drifted off to sleep with exasperating ease. Hook tried the position, but it felt too precarious, and he could not doze off despite his tiredness. Instead he watched Peter, carnal thoughts only occasionally crossing his mind, still occupied with anger at his men and fear that the crocodile would win out in this battle of persistence.

***

Hook awoke with a jerk, disturbed at the feel of rough bark against his face. He straightened himself back to a sitting position, his body protesting the awkward position he had ended up sleeping in with nagging pain in many places.

The captain rubbed his eyes and looked around himself to find the crocodile still patient and expectant below him, basking in the bog made more treacherous and impassable by the heavy rain. The boy nowhere in sight.

Perhaps it had been a feverish dream that he had accompanied him yesterday? Hallucination or not, Hook wished it would return. He was suffering extreme thirst and hunger, and an urge to void, though with no easy, safe position to do it in. In the end he was glad Peter Pan had not been present to witness how awkwardly he made water, being too afraid to stand up on the branch. He had only one hand to grasp with, Hook reassured himself. There was no shame in lacking skill at the arts of a tree monkey.

If only the worthless bilge-rats had left him his hook. It hardly seemed just to maroon him with nothing but the barest clothes on his back. Hook suddenly grabbed at his own neck. The chain was still there. They had not bothered to remove it. The small vial attached to it had been such a constant companion that he had forgotten all about it. He slid it out of his ruined shirt, running its smooth glass between his fingers, glad that it had not been lost in the sea.

It was tempting to end it all now. The poison was potent. There was really no use in continuing to live, for the most part. He fumbled with it, still hesitating to pop it open, so lost in thought that the boy's voice from the other tree startled him half to death.

"What is that?"

"Nothing." Hook smiled amiably slipping it back into his shirt.

The boy climbed across, returning to their home branch, shoving something cold and still-wriggling into Hook's hand.

"A fish? You caught a fish with your bare hands?"

"You like meat, don't you?"

"I'm not so hungry yet as to eat it raw." Hook thought he caught a glimpse of disappointment on Peter's face, but the boy sat back on the branch as indifferent as ever. Hook thought about throwing the fish to the beast down below. As if that would sate its hunger. He could not very well end his life with the boy here. Hook sat silent, random thoughts brewing.

"Are you just going to keep sitting here until she leaves?" Peter finally asked.

"She won't leave. I cannot leave. It's a rather hopeless impasse, as far as I see it. Unless one of us dies."

"Then let's just kill her," Peter said, a disturbing little gleam waking in his eyes. "It's getting boring sitting here."

Hook laughed mirthlessly.

Peter jumped to his feet, very intent on the idea and not to be deterred by an adult's pessimism. "Really, why don't I go back to the hold. You had some weapons in there, I saw. Let's kill her!"

"You think I haven't tried all manner of weapons on that monster? It won't die, no matter what hits that tough hide. I'd have to fall down her gullet and rip her from the inside to kill her."

The crocodile, who had hitherto been so motionless it could have been mistaken for dead suddenly moved its head, as if sensing that it had become the subject of eulogy. Hook smirked. The fish had given up on wriggling and lay quiet in his hand. Rip her from the inside--

The idea crept into his head slowly, surreptitiously, as if too good to be true.

"Peter--" Hook offered cautiously. "Do you think you'd be able to get the beast to swallow something?"

The captain could see ligaments in Peter's body tremble, and if there was any doubt as to whether it was fear or excitement, the first full smile spread itself on the boy's face. "Probably. I'd have to get down to the ground for it, I bet, but it should be pretty easy."

They poured Hook's vial of poison into the fish's guts. Hook had planned to be stingy with the mixture, arguing that the poison was probably potent enough, but Peter only narrowed his eyes and remarked that he could not see what other occasion would require it. Hook could feel his heart pumping as he watched the boy descend down the trunk towards the very jaws of the beast. Fear suddenly seized him. The scheme was not worth the risk. He called Peter back but the boy was not to be deterred. The crocodile perked up when it saw him lean in close.

"Damn you, Pan, too close!" Hook shouted. Peter looked up at him for a moment, irritated.

"If you don't want me to be careless, don't go yelling things."

Hook obeyed and watched the boy silently, noticing that his Indian outfit was too large, turned up at all the cuffs-- what if it tripped him up?

The crocodile was staring at Peter with its inhuman slit irises, jaws in a perpetual small grin. Peter grinned back and suddenly leapt onto the ground.

Hook stifled a cry. The crocodile took the bait, lunging forward. Almost indifferently, Peter threw the fish in before bounding off with seemingly inhuman speed, back up another tree, just as the crocodile was going in for a second attack. It returned to its previous post, and Peter returned to Hook's branch, all eyes watching for any changes in the victim of their ploy. At first there was no sign that the poison had any effect. Hook began doubting whether it had retained its potency after all these decades.

"Maybe it spit the fish out?" Peter wondered out loud, obviously disappointed.

And then they saw it. The crocodile grew restless, moving off into deeper water, squirming, shuddering.

Peter followed it along the branches, crouching on a branch directly above it, whooping and cheering when the beast groaned, turned over and sank.

"Did you see it? Did you see what a good job I did?!" Peter came bounding back. Hook had never witnessed such elation in him. He grabbed the boy, hugging his frame close to his body, kissing his cheek, himself overcome with emotions of all sorts. The boy pushed him away violently and instantly produced his dagger.

"You aren't ever to touch me again. Ever. Understand?"

Hook raised his arms as if in surrender. "Alright, Pan, alright. Simply forgot myself in my gratitude to you."

The boy was uncharacteristically bloodthirsty, Hook noted. Would he be the next target? He stared at the grim face, trying to read a trace of friendliness in it. Thankfully it soon softened.

"But did you see what a good job I did? And you said it wouldn't work."

"Pan, you're the best there ever was or will be."

Peter beamed and Hook knew he was safe for now, though happiness over his longtime pursuer's death faded rather quickly. Once again he and Pan lacked a common enemy.


End file.
